\ 


TALES  FROM  THE   OPEEAS. 


EDITED    BY 


GEORGE  FREDERICK  PARDON. 

AUTHOR   OS-   "THE   FACES    IN   THE   FIRE,  'sib  ,   ETC.,    ETC. 


NEW  YORK. 

CARLE  TO  JV,  PUBLISHER,  413  BROADWAY. 
LONDON  I   JAMES    BLAOKWOOD, 
M  DCCC  LXIT. 


TO 

MAX  MARETZEK, 


THIS 

AMERICAN  EDITION  OF  AN  ENGLISH  WORK 

is 
INSCRIBED. 


PREFACE. 


THE  want  of  a  book,  which,  while  preserving  all  the 
force  and  spirit  of  the  original  Operas,  attempts  the  re- 
lation of  the  several  narratives  in  a  graphic  and  pleasing 
style,  has  often,  probably,  been  felt  by  the  patrons  of  the 
lyric  drama.  To  supply  such  a  want,  and  to  provide  all 
classes  of  readers  with  an  accurate  and  succinct  know- 
ledge of  the  incidents  on  which  are  founded  our  most 
celebrated  Operas,  is  the  object  of  the  following  pages. 
Whether  the  experiment  has  been  successfully  carried 
out,  the  public,  and  the  critics,  must  decide.  Few  who 
have  listened  to  the  tragic  story  of  Lucrezia ;  few  who 
have  wept  with  Norma  or  laughed  with  Figaro,  but  will, 
it  is  believed,  welcome  their  old  favorites  of  the  theatre 
in  their  new  literary  costume.  As  it  was  manifestly  im- 
possible to  unravel  the  plots  of  all  the  famous  Operas  in 
one  little  book,  only  such  of  them  have  been  detailed  as 
are  intimately  known  to  American  audiences. 

It  is  but  right  to  add  that  these  tales  have  had  their 
origin,  mainly  in  the  published  Books  of  the  Operas, 
aided  always  by  a  familiar  acquaintance  with  the  Operas 
themselves,  as  they  have  been  placed  on  the  boards  of 
European  and  American  theatres. 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 
LUCREZIA  BORGIA  (Donizetti)   •••••••        f 

DON  GIOVANNI  (Mozart)  .  ...  82 
LA  TOAVIATA  ( Verdi)  .  .61 
DON  PASQUALE  (Donizetti)  .  .  .69 

LA  SOMNAMBULA  (Bellini)                  .......  89 

L'ELISIR  D'AMORE  (Z>omzeftt) 100 

IL  BABBIERB  DI  SIVIGLIA  (Rossini) 117 

RIOOLETTO  (Verdi) 138 

I  PCBITANI  (Bellini) .  152 

LA  FIGLIA  DEL  REQOIMENTO  (Donizetti)         ....  166 

NORMA  (Bellini) 183 

ROBERTO  IL  DIAVOLO  (Meyerbeer) 195 

IL  TROVATORE  ( Vordi)      ...                 .  216 

ERNANI  (Verdi) 233 

MARTHA  (Flotow) 240 


TALES  PROM  THE  OPERAS. 


LUCREZIA    BORGIA.     (DONIZETTI.) 


CHAPTER  I. 

When  Satan  fell,  some  of  the  essence  of  the  god-head  pityingly  clung 
about  him  —  hence  those  of  men  whose  faces  turn  towards  the  darknesa 
have  ever  something  of  the  god  within  them,  which  raises  them  above 
the  poor  animals  who  eat  and  die. — Montaigne. 

THE  Venice  of  nearly  four  hundred  years  ago  was  a 
great,  splendid,  gay,  and  powerful  city.  Gold  was  every 
day  showered  into  the  coffers  of  its  merchants  from  all 
parts  of  the  earth,  and  every  night  there  was  feasting, 
laughing,  and  dancing  in  Venice,  the  richest  and  the 
gayest  city  in  the  world. 

On  the  night  when  our  story  opens  was  being  held  at 
the  Palazzo  Barberigo  a  masqued  ball.  All  Venice, 
masqued,  was  there.  The  lamps  hanging  in  the  trees, 
laughed  at  the  water  as  it  threw  back  the  gay  colored 
rays  of  light  which  kissed  it,  in  tremulous  softness  and 
beauty. 

And  there  below  on  the  still  canal,  the  Giudecca,  glided 
the  silent  black  gondolas,  bearing  gaily  dressed  cavaliers 
and  dames  to  and  from  the  f&te. 

So  silently  the  gondolas  passed,  that  not  a  soul  upon 
the  shore  knew  a  boat  had  gone  by,  a  boat,  perhaps,  from 
which  peered  out  a  jealous  eye. 

The  gardens  of  the  palace  were  large,  and  ever  when 
the  music  ceased,  there  were  seen  in  all  parts  of  it  gay 
masquers,  courting,  talking,  singing,  flirting,  or  watching. 


10  TALKS  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

Among  the  guests  was  Gennaro,  young  and  beautiful 
as  the  nights  of  Italy.  With  him  was  one  of  the  gre.-it 
Orsini,  even  younger  than  himself,  and  far  gayer.  Nay, 
he  was  but  a  boy.  These  two  were  ever  together,  in 
peace  or  on  the  battle-field,  at  fetes,  or  quietly  at  home. 

So  now  amidst  the  group  wherever  walked  Orsini,  Gen- 
naro had  a  place.  These  two  as  they  sauntered  along 
with  their  friends,  all  either  carrying  their  masks  in  their 
hands,  or  else  tied  to  their  belts,  these  two  were  deplor- 
ing, and  being  pitied,  for  they  were  to  leave  Venice  on 
the  morrow. 

"Alas!"  said  one,  "You  will  never  like  Ferrara,  as  you 
like  the  poorest  street  in  Venice." 

"But,  still,"  cried  another,  "'tis  something  to  form 
part  of  an  ambassador's  suite." 

"  Faith,"  cried  a  third,  "  I  would  sooner  be  as  I  am  and 
in  Venice." 

"  Let  me  tell  you  Signers,"  said  a  fourth,  who  waa 
called  Gubetta,  a  Spaniard,  and  not  in  good  repute,  "let 
me  tell  you  the  court  of  Alfonzo  is  superb,  and  as  for 
Lucrezia  Borgia  "  — 

"  What ! "  cried  one,  "  name  her,  here,  at  a  fete  ?  n 

"  Pray  ye  be  silent,"  cried  another. 

"  The  Borgia,"  said  a  third,  "  I  abhor  her  very  name." 

"  In  faith,  added  another,  " '  twould  not  be  saying 
much  for  thee  to  say  that  thou  lovdst  her." 

"As  for  us,"  said  the  Orsini,  whom  they  called  Maffio, 
"we  should  dread  her  more  than  any  of  you,  if  the 
sorcerer  spoke  truly." 

"Again  a  tale,  Maffio,"  said  Gennaro.  "Leave  the 
Borgia  alone,  who  cares  to  hear  of  her." 

"  No,  no,  Gennaro,  let  us  hear  the  tale.    Go  on  Maffio." 

"Then  I'll  fain  go  to  sleep,"  said  Gennaro.  "Faith 
I  could  fall  asleep  standing,  when  Orsini  begins  his 
I  >ng  tales." 

"Signors,  'tis  a  good  tale,  though  my  friend  has  heard 
it  before.  See,  now,  he  has  flung  himself  down  on  that 
seat.  Well, —  well,  'tis  but  two  ears  the  less.  In  the 
fatal  battle  of  Rimini  I  was  wounded ;  and  while  lying 
on  the  ground,  and  dying  as  I  thought,  Gennaro  found 
me,  helped  me  to  horse,  and  bore  me  in  safety  from  the 


LUCBEZIA   BORGIA.  11 

field.  In  the  shelter  of  a  wood  he  was  dressing  my 
wounds,  and  we  had  both  sworn  to  live  and  die  together, 
when  an  aged  man,  clad  in  a  dress  falling  to  his  feet, 
stood  before  us.  '  Youths,'  said  he,  '  shun  the  Borgia, 
go  not  near  Lucrezia,  she  is  death.'  Then  he  was  gone, 
gone.  And  the  wind  thrice  whispered  the  hated  name. 
There  —  what  think  you  of  my  tale  ?  See  you,  Gennaro 
would  not  listen  to  it,  because  he  loveth  not  to  be  praised. 

"A  good  tale'  but  it  does  not  prove  thou  shouldst 
shun  the  Borgia." 

"  Whereof  in  proof,  we  go  to  Ferrara  to-morrow.  Bah ! 
what  Venetian  need  fear  the  Borgia,  while  the  dreaded 
lion  of  Venice  can  roar  ?  Yet  still,  sometimes,  Signers, 
I  fancy  there  may  be  some  truth  in  the  prophecy." 

"  Let  us  wake  Gennaro,  let  us  ask  him  if  he  believes 
in  the  solemn  warning." 

"Oh,  let  him  sleep.  If  he  would  rather  dream  than 
hear  my  tales,  let  him  dream." 

Here  the  swelling  dance  music  reaching  their  ears, 
they  gaily  sauntered  to  the  palace,  and  soon  the  only 
person  in  the  garden  was  Gennaro,  peacefully  sleeping 
on  a  marble  bench,  his  head  resting  on  his  arm,  and  his 
face  as  tranquil  as  a  little  child's. 

There  is  a  lipple  o'er  the  dark  canal  —  the  reflexions  of 
the  colored  lamps  are  all  broken  up  and  scattered.  'Tis 
a  gondola,  silent  and  sombre,  which,  in  a  little  seething 
of  water,  stops  just  below  the  terrace  stairs. 

Then  from  it  steps  a  woman  all  clothed  in  heavy  black ; 
a  black  mask  on  her  face,  a  black  fan  in  her  hand.  Nay, 
the  very  cross  upon  her  neck  is  jet. 

The  gondola  from  which  she  has  stepped  glides  silently 
away,  and  leaves  her  standing  hesitatingly  in  the  garden. 
Then  she  starts  as  she  sees  the  sleeping  face  turned 
towards  the  moonlight. 

She  moves  towards  the  sleeper,  darkly,  noiselessly, 
her  shoulders  drawn  together ;  she  is  so  desirous  she  may 
not  be  heard,  that  she  might  be  about  to  murder  him  as 
he  sleeps.  At  last,  close  to  him,  she  bends  over  his 
sleeping  face.  Her  hand  is  on  his  forehead.  Lower  and 
lower  bends  her  head.  Awake,  awake !  But  there  is  no 
fear.  She  has  b.ut  kissed  him.  A  soft,  noiseless  kiss. 


12  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

As  she  moves  a  few  steps  from  him,  her  eyes  still  on 
his  face,  her  arm  is  touched. 

«  Signora ! " 

«  Thou,  Gubetta ! " 

"  I  fear  for  thee.  Venice  may  guard  thy  life,  but  she 
.cannot  save  thee  from  insult." 

What  does  this  mysterious  woman  think  as  her  head 
droops?  Truly  she  should  be  insulted,  all  breathing 
men  and  women,  and  small  children  even,  abhor  her 
name.  Yet  she  was  not  born  to  such  a  fate.  But  the 
past,  the  past,  who  shall  recall  the  past.  And  then  the 
vision  of  an  aged  man,  clad  in  a  robe  falling  to  the 
ground  in  heavy  folds,  comes  before  her,  and  she  trembles. 
As  she  looks  on  the  sleeper,  she  asks  herself  how  long 
was  it  since  she  had  slept  so  peacefully? 

w  Thou  gazest  upon  the  youth,  Signora.  Vainly  have 
I  sought  to  learn  the  reason  of  thy  secret  journey  from 
Ferrara  here  to  Venice  —  perhaps  this  youth." 

"  Thou  seek  to  read  my  acts  —  thou !  Leave  me." 

The  man  —  a  fair-looking  man  enough  —  bowed,  and 
with  quiet,  measured  steps  withdrew. 

Then  she  came  back  to  the  sleeping  man. 

"How  beautiful  he  is,"  she  thought.  Never  in  her 
dreams  had  she  imagined  him  so  beautiful.  She  almost 
cried  with  rapture  as  she  looked  on  him.  Was  this  love  ? 
Yes.  Guilty  love?  Nay ;  wait  and  read.  Should  she  wake 
him  ?  No. 

She  removed  her  mask  to  wipe  away  her  tears  (fallen 
to  good  purpose — as  nearly  all  tears  fall),  and  in  those 
few  moments  her  face  was  seen  —  not  by  the  youth 
upon  the  marble  seat,  but  by  the  scowling  eyes  of  a  tall, 
haughty-looking  man,  glaring  from  a  treacherous  gon- 
dola, which  had  quietly  stolen  up,  under  cover  of  the 
night,  and  there  lay  still  below  the  terrace.  Beside  him 
stood  a  mean-looking  creature  whom  he  called  Rusti- 
ghello.  "  It  is  she  ! " 

"  Truly,  Signor." 

u  And  the  youth,  who  is  he  ?  " 

"  A  poor  adventurer,  without  parents  or  country ; 
people  say  he  is  brave." 

"What  will  not  people  say,  good  Rustighello  ?  Trj 
every  art  to  lure  him  to  Ferrara,  and  to  me  — " 


LTTCREZIA   BORGIA.  13 

"  There  is  no  need  for  art.  By  chance,  he  will  set  out 
with  Gruirani  for  Ferrara." 

Slowly  the  gondola  stole  away  with  its  watching 
secret. 

"  Sleep,  sleep,  poor  youth,  and  good  dreams  wait  on 
you.  For  me  are  naught  but  sleepless  nights  and  bitter 
watching."  She  stooped  again  to  kiss  him.  He  woke. 

"Heavens!  whom  do  I  see?" 

"  I  Pray  thee  let  me  go  ! " 

"  Nay,  nay,  fair  lady.     On  my  faith  —  " 

"  Again  I  do  implore  thee,  let  me  pass." 

"  Nay,  but  a  moment  to  admire  thee,  for  I  feel  thou'rt 
beuatiful.  Oh  !  be  not  afraid,  I  will  not  harm  thee." 

"  Surely  not,  Gennaro." 

"  What !  thou  knowest  me  ?  " 

"  And  thou  couldst  love  me ! 

"Who  could  not  love  the  owner  of  so  sweet  a  voice?" 

"  And  thou  couldst  love  me,  Gennaro?" 

"  Sui-ely,  but  not  so  dearly  as  I  love  one  other  I  could 
name. " 

"  And  she  —  and  she  ?  " 

"Is  my  mother." 

"Thy  mother!  Oh  my  Gennaro,  thou  dost  love  her?" 
And  she  trembles  greatly,  this  unknown  woman. 

"  I  love  her  as  I  love  my  life." 

"And  thinkst  thou  she  loves  thee?" 

Alas  !  I  never  saw  her." 

And  yet  thou  lovest  her  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  wretched  tale  which  I  do  hide  from  all ;  but 
ah  !  to  thee  it  seems  that  I  must  tell  it ;-  for  in  thy  face 
I  read  thou  hast  a  noble  soul." 

"  A  noble  soul ! " 

"  I  thought  myself  the  son  of  a  poor  fisherman,  with 
whom  I  spent  my  early  years.  But  one  day  came  a  noble 
stranger;  he  gave  me  money,  a  splendid  steed,  bright 
arms,  and,  best  of  all,  a  paper.  It  was  my  mother  —  it 
was  my  mother  who  had  written  it.  The  victim  of  a 
mighty  man,  she  feared  for  both  our  lives,  and  so  would 
hide  herself  from  me.  She  bade  me  never  seek  her  name  • 
and  to  this  hour  never  have  I  sought  to  learn  it." 

"  And  this  paper ! " 


14  TALKS  FEOM  THE  OPERAS. 

•*  See  here ! "  and  he  took  it  from  the  bosom  of  his 
dress ;  w  it  never  leaveth  me." 

"  Perchance,  Gennaro,  she  wept  when  she  wrote  it ! " 

"And  have  not  /wept,  too,  my  mother — O  my  mother  1 
But  methinks  I  see  tears  on  thy  face,  lady." 

"  Ah !  yes,  I  weep  for  tliee  —  for  her." 

u  For  me !  for  her !  Indeed,  I  think  already  that  I  love 
thee  dearly." 

u  Oh !  ever  love  thy  mother,  youth  ;  cling  to  her  with 
all  thy  soul.  Never  think  ill  of  her  when  thou  dost 
doubt  most  strongly ;  think  ever  how  she  loves  thee,  and 
pity  her,  and  hope  that  she  may  one  day  press  thee  to 
her  heart." 

"  Ah  !  lady,  no  need  hast  thou  to  teach  me  this !  I  see 
her  near  me  always  —  gentle,  loving,  pure;  she  is  my 
guardian  angel.  When  I  would  do  ill,  she  comes  upon 
me  in  my  dreams,  and  smiles  a  welcome  to  me." 

"  I  hear  footsteps,  I  must  leave  thee." 

«  Why  shouldst  thou  tremble  ?  " 

'  Twas  Orsini  and  the  friends  coming  to  seek  for 
Gennaro.  The  youth  Maffio,  seeing  a  lady  near  his  friend, 
ran  gaily  forward  to  them ;  but  within  a  few  paces,  and 
just  as  the  lady  was  rising  her  mask  to  her  face,  he  saw 
her  —  saw  her,  to  start  and  turn  pale,  brave  as  he  was ; 
saw  her,  to  call  on  Heaven,  and  ask  himself  her  uame. 

He  ran  back  to  his  companions,  uttered  but  two  words, 
and  each  man  was  amazed.  One  laid  his  hand  upon  the 
spot  where  his  dagger  would  have  been,  but  that  at  ffetes 
all  arms  were  rendered  at  the  door.  Another  placed  his 
hand  upon  his  "mouth  and  gazed  in  horror. 

"  Gennaro,"  whispered  the  unknown  lady,  "  I  must 
leave  thee." 

«  Yet  deign  to  tell  who  thou  art  ?  " 

w  One  whose  life  is  loving  thee." 

*•  Thy  name  !  " 

WI  will  reveal  it,"  cried  Orsini,  coming  forward,  and 
speaking  savagely,  unmercifully. 

As  the  woman  heard  these  words,  and  recognized  the 
voice,  she  flinched,  and  strove  to  run  from  the  place. 

But  they  stopped  her;  each  way  she  made  a  step, 
on  each  side  stood  a  stern,  unyielding  man.  They  stppd 
about  her,  yet  not  near  her, 


LUCREZIA   BOEGIA.  15 

"  Gennaro,  Gennaro  ;  help ! " 

"Signers!"  cried  the  youth,  "what  wouldst  thou? 
This  lady  I  protect ;  he  that  insults  her  is  my  friend  no 
longer." 

"  We  would  wish  to  tell  the  lady  who  we  are,  and  tell 
thee  who  she  is,"  cried  they  earnestly,  and  yet  with 
something  of  mockery  in  their  tones,  "  then  she  may  go  ; 
we  shall  have  no  wish  to  keep  her  with  us." 

"  I,  for  one,  am  that  Maffio  Orsini,  whose  brother  you 
murdered  as  he  slept." 

"  And  I,  I  am  that  man  whose  aged  uncle  you  de- 
stroyed on  his  threshold." 

"  While  I,  fair  lady,  am  the  nephew  of  one  who  died 
quaffing  your  wine." 

"I,  Pftruci,  O  lady,  am  cousin  to  him  whose  domi- 
nions you  stole." 

"  And  I  was  the  friend  of  the  man,  who  sleeps,  by 
your  will,  beneath  the  Tiber." 

Hopeless  all  her  appeals,  hopeless  that  she  falls  on 
her  knees  before  them.  Each  strikes  the  air  with  his  arm 
as  he  addresses  her;  not  one  feels  pity. 

"  Who,  then,  is  this  woman?"  said  Gennaro;  "dare  I 
hear?" 

"  Gennaro,  do  not  believe  them ;  they  mistake  me." 

"  Oh  !  no  mistake,  lady,"  cried  out  Orsini ;  "  remove 
thy  mask.  She  is  the  woman  who  hath  shamed  all 
women  ;  she  is  the  woman  whom  all  ages  shall  abhor ; 
whose  breath  is  poison,  whose  look  is  death,  whom 
Heaven  pities  too  much  to  destroy." 

"  Spare  me  !  spare  me  !  r 

"  As  thou  hast  spared." 

"Be  merciful;  there  is  yet  time.  Gennaro,  see,  I 
cling  to  thee ;  forbid  them.  Be  merciful,  signers !  spare 


me 


155 


"  As  thou  hast  spared." 

Then  the  Orsini  tore  the  mask  from  her  face. 

"BEHOLD  HEB  —  LUCKEZIA  BORGIA." 

What !  is  this  the  gentle  face  that  wept  over  the  sleep- 
ing youth  ?  Look  on  it !  like  a  demon's  as  she  springs 
from  her  knees  —  defiant,  fearless,  no  longer  suppliant ; 
degraded,  but  not  shamed.  "  Beware  ! "  she  cries,  as  tho 


16  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

gentlemen  shun  her,  turning  away  from  her  —  as  Gennaro 
turns  from  her.  "Beware,  you  who  have  shown  no 
mercy !  beware  1 " 


CHAPTER  II. 

Iir  FERRARA.  No  longer  in  the  city  of  waters,  and 
palaces,  and  gay  feastings.  In  Ferrara,  where  the  Borgiaa 
reign.  Where  the  cruel  Duke  Alfonzo  reigns,  where 
also  his  cruel  wife  is  Duchess,  the  terrible  Lucrezia 
Borgia. 

See,  in  this  grand  square,  there  is  the  palace  of  the 
duke.  Mark  his  arms  carved  over  the  gateway,  the 
awful  name  Borgia  swelling  from  the  stone  beneath. 

The  new  Venetian  ambassador  with  his  suite  had 
arrived. 

It  is  night-time,  and  plot  and  murder  are  awake. 

Look !  is  not  this  the  figure  of  the  tall,  proud-looking 
man  who  watched  the  Borgia  from  a  gondola  in  Venice. 
And  the  man  with  him,  'tis  he  who  told  of  Gennaro. 

They  are  walking  slowly  across  the  square. 

"  So,  then,  he  has  arrived  in  the  ambassador's  suite." 

"  Surely ;  I  have  been  his  shadow.  That  house  is  hia 
abode." 

w  Ah,  she  would  fain  have  him  near  the  palace." 

M  And  in  it,  Signor,  if  Gubetta  speaks  the  truth." 

"  It  shall  be  his  tomb." 

"The  Signor  hears  that  music,  'tis  from  his  house, 
The  youth  makes  merry  with  his  friends.  Tis  just  the 
same  each  night,  they  only  sleep  at  dawn." 

"Let  him  take  a  long  farewell  of  them,  'tis  the  last 
time  they  shall  carouse  with  him." 

With  angry  strides  he  went  up  to  the  ducal  house. 
No  need  to  knock.  Too  secret-loving  was  this  man  for 
that.  Slowly  a  small  door  opened,  and  he  and  his  com- 
panion entered. 

Far  different  from  these  two  gloomy  men  were  the 
half  dozen  laughing  youths  who  now  came  trooping  away 
from  Gennaro's  wine  cups.  He  came  from  the  house 


LTJCREZIA  BORGIA.  17 

•with  them,  willing  as  host  to  show  he  did  not  love  to 
part  with  them. 

*'  Good  bye,  good  bye,  dear  friends." 

"  Good  bye  Gennaro,"  cried  the  others ;  and  Orsini 
added,  "  Thou  hast  .the  gravest  face  amongst  us,  thou  art 
ever  sad." 

"  No,  no."  But,  truth  to  tell,  his  thoughts  were  ever 
with  his  unknown  mother. 

"  Now  I  tell  thee  that  this  night  thou  shalt  be  gay. 
The  Princess  Negroni  gives  a  ball  to-night,  where  a 
thousand  beauties  shall  be  found,  and  thou  must  come, 
Gennaro.  And  if  any  one  of  you  be  not  invited,  let 
him  speak.  He  will  speak  well,  for  on  my  word,  I  keep 
the  ball-room  door." 

Said  they,  one  after  the  other. — "  I  am  bidden,  and  I, 
and  I." 

"  And  I  also,  Signors,"  said  a  fresh  voice. 

*•  What,  Signor  Bevarana ! " 

•'  Or  Gubetta,"  said  Orsini. 

"  That  man  seems  every  where ;  indeed,  I  do  begin  to 
doubt  him,"  said  Gennaro,  softly  to  Orsini. 

"Oh,  fear  not,"  said  the  other,  carelessly.  He  is  a 
man  of  pleasure,  like  ourselves,  and  fain  not  be  alone  if 
he  can  find  him  company.  Thou  art  still  sad,  Gennaro." 

"  Oh  cried  one  laughingly.  "  Perchance  the  Borgia 
has  enchanted  him." 

"  That  woman's  name  again.  I  swear,  Signors,  I  hate 
the  sound  of  it." 

"Ha!  ha!"  laughed  another.  "How  darst  thou  speak 
thus  so  near  her  palace  ?  " 

"  Her  palace.  I  would  I  could  brand  her  forehead,  as 
1  can  and  will  the  wall  that  bears  her  name." 

As  they  wondered  what  he  meant,  he  unbuckled  his 
sword,  took  hold  of  it  as  it  was  sheathed  by  the  point, 
and  running  to  the  palace  door,  clambered  from  boss  to 
boss  of  the  carved  stone  work  till  he  got  near  the  name 
w  Borgia,"  jutting  from  the  face  of  the  doorway.  Then 
he  raised  the  sword,  beat  its  hilt  down  upon  the  "  B " 
commencing  the  name,  and  in  a  few  moments  the  letter, 
splintered  to  fragments,  lay  upon  the  ground. 

So  those  who  stood  below  read  on  the  proud  door, 


18  TALES  FBOM  THB  OPKBA8. 

and  beneath  the  proud  arms  of  the  Borgias,  the  meaning 
word  "  Orgia." 

"Great  heaven,  Gennaro!"  Even  the  brave  Orsini 
was  frightened,  and  the  others  looked  at  each  other  in 
terrible  inquiry, as  they  read  the  terrible  truth  —  "Orgia." 

Said  Gubetta,  whom  they  had  insolently  called  Beve- 
rana,  "In  faith,  that  jest  may  cost  thee  dear." 

u  In  faith,  I  can  pay  my  debts,  Signer." 

"  See,  Gennaro,  there  are  eyes  watching  us,"  said 
Orsini ;  not  meaning  Gubetta,  but  two  men,  dressed  in 
the  flowing  black  cloaks  of  the  time,  like  shrouds  for  sin, 
who  met  some  little  distance  off  in  the  square,  and 
seemed  to  defy  each  other. 

The  youth  Gennaro  made  no  reply  to  the  warning,  but 
gaily  saying  "  good  bye,  good  bye ; "  turned  to  his  house, 
and  entered  it,  while  the  roysterers  dispersed  in  different 
directions. 

The  men  of  the  cloaks  still  seemed  to  defy  each  other 
furtively ;  still  remained ;  not  standing  quiet,  and  yet  not 
walking  with  a  purpose.  The  sounds  of  the  tripping 
footsteps  dying  away,  these  two  men  approached  each 
other,  each  with  his  arms  wrapped  in  his  cloak,  and, 
perhaps,  each  with  his  right  hand  on  his  sword. 

"  Why  does  the  Signer  wait  here  ?  " 

"The  Signor  is  waiting  for  thy  going.  And  Signer 
himself?"  — 

"  Is  waiting  to  see  thee  leave  this  square." 

"  Prythee,  why  art  thou  here  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  the  young  Venetian  who  lives  here,  and  for 
whom  thou  art  waiting ! " 

"I?" 

"Yes,  where  gqpst  thou  with  him?" 

"  Stand  back,  in  the  name  of  the  duchess? 

"  Stand  back  thyself,  in  the  name  of  the  DUKE." 

"  The  duchess  is  powerful ! " 

"  The  duke  is  death." 

"  Now  who  shall  conquer  ?  " 

«  We  will  see." 

A  sharp,  vet  low  whistle, from  the  lips  of  this  last  speaker, 
who  stood  beside  the  duke,  when  he  watched  his  duchess 
away  there  in  Venice,  and  watched  her  from  a  gomiolx 


LUCBEZIA   BOEGIA.  19 

Barely  had  the  whistle  whispered  through  the  air,  than 
a  score  of  soft-footed  men,  each  like  each,  enveloped  in 
a  shroud-like  cloak,  surrounded  him  who  had  spoken  bj 
the  duchess. 

M  Beware  —  the  duchess." 

"  Be  silent,  and  depart.  This  youth  hath  offended  the 
duke.  Be  silent,  and  fear  not." 

They  carried  him  away  with  them,  and  in  the  wide 
square  only  stood  the  duke's  servant,  watching  Gennaro's 
house. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Go  WE  now  to  the  grand  palace,  where  the  husband 
and  wife  watched  each  other  ceaselessly,  each  ever 
fearing  death  at  the  hands  of  the  other.  A  happy  palace, 
truly. 

See,  standing  there,  in  that  splendid  royal  room,  are  the 
duke  and  Rustighello,  who  had  stood  watching  Gennaro's 
house.  v 

"  Well?  " 

"All  is  done,  sire.  The  prisoner  is  now  within  the 
palace." 

Keeping  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  other's  face,  the  duke 
drew  from  his  waist  a  small  golden  key.  'Tis  to  unlock 
the  hidden  door  of  a  hidden  staircase,  to  be  crept  up,  till 
a  little  chamber  is  reached.  Then  there  are  two  vases,  one 
of  gold,  and  one  of  silver,  each  filled  with  wine,  to  be 
brought  down,  carried  to  the  next  room,  and  there  be 
ready.  Let  not  the  golden  vase  tempt  him,  for  it  holds 
the  wine  of  the  Borgias.  Then,  if  he  be  called,  let  him 
bring  the  vases;  but  if  there  be  no  call,  then,  good  Rusti- 
ghello, thy  sword. 

Then  this  mighty  duke  starts  as  a  servant  at  the  door 
announces  "the  Duchess." 

Forward  she  comes,  sparkling  with  rage  and  diamonds ; 
no  longer  dressed  in  heavy  black,  but  in  rich  rustling 
brocade,  a  sweeping  coronet  of  jewels  round  her 
head. 


20  TALES  FHOM  THE  OPEKA8. 

u  The  duchess  seems  unquiet." 

"  Enraged.  I  come  here  to  call  for  justice.  A  shame- 
ful crime  hath  been  committed,  the  name  of  thy  duchess 
has  been  degraded." 

"  Softly,  duchess,  I  know  it." 

"  And  thou  dost  not  punish  the  offender ;  doth  he  still 
live?" 

"  Live  ?  Yes.  That  thou  mayest  destroy  him,  duchess. 
Nay,  he  will  be  before  thee  in  another  minute." 

"  Let  him  be  whom  he  may,  I  demand  his  life,  and  in 
my  presence,  duke.  Thou  wilt  give  me  thy  word  for 
this,  my  lord  ?  " 

"  I  do,  most  heartily,  dear  duchess.  I  give  thee  my 
sacred  word." 

Then,  to  a  page,  who  has  entered  after  the  duchess : 

"  Let  the  prisoner  be  brought  forward." 

"  Duchess,  thou  tremblest,  thou  dost  know  this  man." 

This  man  is  Gennaro,  brought  in  before  the  angry 
duke  and  duchess,  and  standing  fearlessly. 

"I  —  I  do  not  know  him." 

"  Pray,  may  I  ask  the  duke  why  I  am  here  —  why  I 
have  been  torn  from  my  house  ?  May  I  dare  to  ask  the 
meaning  of  such  rigor  ?  " 

"  Good  captain  —  draw  near.  Some  coward  wretch  has 
dared  to  touch  the  noble  name  of  Borgia  written  on  this 
palace  door,  nay,  to  destroy  the  name.  The  duchess, 
even  as  I  speak,  trembles  with  anger  at  the  act.  We 
seek  the  guilty  one;  perhaps  thou  knowest  him?" 

"It  was  not  he  —  my  lord  —  it  was  not  he,"  cried 
Lucrezia. 

"  Ah !  duchess  —  duchess  —  how  shouldst  thou  know?  " 

"  He !  he  was  elsewhere  when  it  was  done.  'Twas 
some  of  his  companions  dared n 

"  No  —  no  —  that  is  not  true." 

"Thou  hearest,  duchess.  Now  tell  me,  captain,  and 
sincerely  —  art  thou  not  he  who  dared  to  do  this  act." 

u  I'm  not  much  used  to  hesitate,  therefore  I  say  I  am 
the  man." 

Slowly  he  turned  to  the  miserable  duchess.  "Thou 
dost  mark  his  words  "  (how  lowly  the  duke  spoke !)  u  Thou 
dost  murk  his  words,  and  I  gave  thee  my  sacred  promise.' 


LUCKEZIA  BOEGIA.  21 

«  Alfonzo,  Alfonzo,  I  would  speak  with  thee  alone." 

"  Oh !  surely.  A  moment,  captain,  but  a  moment. 
Well !  duchess  mine,  we  are  alone.  What  wouldst  thou 
ask?" 

"  The  life  of  this  poor  youth." 

"  Do  I  hear  rightly  ?  And  but  now  such  anger  as  thou 
didst  show ! " 

"I  pity  him.  'Twas  but  a  passing  anger.  I  acted 
but  in  jest ;  he  is  too  young  to  think  of  consequences. 
Again,  to  what  good  his  death  ?  Pardon  him.  Have 
pity  on  him.  Let  him  live." 

"  No,  no,  dear  lady  mine,  my  word  is  pledged.  I  never 
break  my  word." 

"Nay,  dear  duke,  but  I  insist.  And  why,  thou  seemest 
to  ask  ?  'Twere  ungenerous  to  refuse  thy  consort  a  poor 
favor  such  as  this.  What  is  the  youth  to  me  ?  Pardon 
him.  Have  pity  on  him.  Let  him  live." 

"No,  no.  What!  pardon  him  who  hath  insulted  thee! 
No,  thou  didst  ask  his  death.  And  if  I  could  pardon 
him,  —  nor  could  I  —  for  thy  dear  sake  I  would  not." 

"  Let  us  both  pardon,  and  be  clement,  duke,  for  cle- 
mency is  glorious  in  us  all,  and  most  of  all  in  kings." 

"  No  king  am  I,  but  a  poor  duke.  I  cannot  spare  him, 
duchess." 

"Why  shouldst  thou  be  so  angry  with  this  same 
Gennaro  ?  " 

"  Dost  thou  not  know  ?  " 

"I?" 

"  Dost  thou  not  LOVE  him  ?  Ah !  thou  dost  start, 
Lucrezia.  Even  now  I  read  in  that  face  of  thine  thy 
crime." 

"  Don  Alfonzo ! " 

"  Nay,  do  not  speak  —  " 

"If  I  swear?" 

"  Tt  were  useless.  What !  shall  I  never  be  revenged 
on  thee?  If  I  may  not  strike  thee  openly,  shall  I  let 
pass  this  hope  of  wounding  thee  ?  " 

"  Pardon,  Don  Alfonzo." 

"Pardon!" 

«  For  pity's  sake." 

"What,  canst  thou  speak  of  pity  —  thou,  Lucrezia?" 


22  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

«  Don  Alfonzo,  dear  husband."  On  her  knees  to  him, 
clinging  to  him,  her  eyes  dilated,  her  lips  dry  and  white. 

But  he  stands  immovable.  Looks  down  on  her  un- 
yieldingly. Why,  her  very  humiliation  enrages  him.  Foi 
does  not  this  poor  unknown  wretch,  this  Venetian,  beat 
down  her  pride  as  he,  duke  and  powerful,  hath  never, 
never  beaten  it  down  yet ! 

"  Thou  dost  not  answer.    BEWARE  ! " 

Once  more  she  is  the  terrible  duchess,  and  if  the  duke 
wear  opal,  let  it  warn  him. 

"I  know  thee,  duchess.  I  have  known  thee  long, 
Lucrezia.  But  forget  not  I  am  duke,  and  in  Ferrara. 
Thou  art  in  my  power.  Ahl  well,  I'm  not  unrea- 
sonable. I  grant  thee  somewhat.  Thou  shalt  choose  the 
manner  of  his  death.  Or  poison,  or  sword.  Pray  now 
choose ! " 

"I  —  I  cannot." 

"  Let  him  then  be  —  stabbed." 

«  No,  no." 

«  Stabbed  — stabbed." 

"  No,  not  blood,  not  blood." 

"  The  poison.  Thou  dost  choose  his  death.  Pray  be 
seated. —  Enter  captain,  enter.  The  duchess  is  all-powerful 
with  me.  Why,  I  cannot  tell,  but  she  pardons  thy 
crime,  and  bids  thee  go  in  peace.  Italy  would  grieve  to 
lose  so  handsome  a  son." 

"  The  duke  pardons  me.  Ah !  well,  now  that  I  can 
speak  without  the  look  of  cowardice  and  hope  of  mercy, 
I  may  tell  the  duke  that  his  clemency  has  fallen  on  a 
man  who  doth  deserve  it.  For  thy  father,  surrounded 
by  the  enemy,  would  have  died  but  for  the  arm  of  a  poor 
adventurer." 

"  The  adventurer,  good  captain,  was  — " 

"  My  very  self." 

"  Duke,  duke,"  lowly,  and  pulling  his  dress,  "  he  saved 
thy  father's  life  —  spare  him. 

"  The  duchess  speaks  to  me,  but  so  lowly  that  I  scarce 
can  hear  her.  So  thou  didst  save  my  father's  life  —  wilt 
follow  his  son's  standard  ?  " 

"  Pardon  me,  I'm  bound  by  oath  to  Venice,  and  oaths 
are  binding." 


LUCREZIA   BOBGIA.  23 

"Surely.  Oaths  are  binding  —  is  it  not  so,  duchess? 
Well,  well,  good  captain,  take  a  golden  present." 

"  No,  I  am  not  rich,  yet  rich  enough." 

"  Thou  art  hard  to  please,  fair  captain.  At  least  a 
draught  of  wine  thou'lt  drink  with  me.  At  last  thou 
dost  agree.  The  duchess,  here,  for  once,  will  e'en  turn 
cup-bearer.  Nay,  nay,  nay,  duchess,  do  not  leave  us; 
generous-minded  thou  hast  been  to  him,  and  now  be  more 
so.  Rustighello,  bring  us  wine."  He  almost  towered 
higher  than  his  actual  stature,  as  he  looked  upon  the  suf- 
fering woman.  "  Place  the  cups  there  —  for  me  the  silver 
one  —  the  golden  to  the  captain.  Now,  duchess,  pour, 
pour.  Nay,  nay,  duchess,  the  golden  vase  and  golden  cup 
do  go  together,  and  silver  to  the  silver.  Now,  mark, 
good  captain,  the  duchess  will  bear  the  cup  to  thee  her- 
self." 

Slowly  she  takes  the  cup,  slowly  she  carries  it  to  the 
captain.  And  thus  he  holds  it,  wondering  at  the  kind- 
ness of  these  people,  whom  he  has  always  thought  so 
harsh  and  full  of  hate. 

"  Lady,  I  did  not  dream  of  pardon,  and,  methinks,  my 
mother,  whom  I  know  doth  pray  for  me,  hath  by  her 
dearest  prayers  inclined  thee  and  the  duke  to  gracious 
mercy.  I  drink  to  the  duke  and  duchess." 

Courteously  the  duke  relieves  the  captain  of  the  emp- 
tied goblet,  lightly  places  it  upon  the  table,  then  slowly 
creeping,  like  a  reptile,  he  goes  up  to  the  duchess  and 
says,  softly,  "  Thou  hast  perchance  somewhat  to  say  to 
him.  Permit  me  to  retire." 

Why  does  a  hopeful  flush  rush  over  her  face  ?  Why 
does  she  touch  her  bosom  with  a  trembling  hand  ?  Why 
again  does  her  countenance  express  so  much  emotion  ? 

The  young  captain  sees  her  accompany  the  duke  to  the 
doors.  The  duke  bows  to  him  profoundly,  and  then  his 
back  is  turned.  What  next  ?  She  stands  listening  for  a 
moment  or  so,  then  rushes  madly  towards  the  youth,  who 
looks  alarmedly  about  the  room  in  .which  are  present 
only  their  two  selves. 

As  she  runs  to  him  she  takes  her  hand  from  her  breast. 
"  Gennaro,  thou  art  poisoned ;  do  not  move ;  quickly  take 
this  phial,  and  begone.  A  single  drop  will  save  thee." 


24  TALES  FEOM  THE  OPEKAS. 

She  stands  a  little  away  from  him,  and  draws  her  dress 
on  one  side  as  she  gives  him  the  phial,  so  that  it  may  hide 
her  hand.  When  he  has  it,  she  presses  his  hand  round  it, 
so  that  it  cannot  be  seen,  and  then  she  stands  away  from 
him. 

What  does  he  think  as  he  stands  there,  now  full  of  ter- 
ror ?  Death  faced  on  the  battle  field  or  on  the  scaffold 
may  be  met  calmly ;  but  to  die  poisoned,  treacherously 
destroyed  by  a  lie,  it  would  make  a  god  tremble.  Fool, 
that  for  a  moment  he  had  trusted  the  court  of  Ferrara ; 
and  this  antidote,  perchance  'twas  death ;  perchance  the 
wine  had  not  been  poisoned  !  He  had  insulted  her  more 
deeply  than  he  had  the  duke.  Distrustful  and  terror- 
stricken,  he  stands  hesitatingly. 

**  Drink,  drink,  he  deemed  thee  his  rival." 

As  he  looks  on  her  face  his  heart  turns  towards  her  — 
he  knows  not  why,  but  he  believes  her  —  he  seems  to 
think  she  wills  that  he  shall  believe  her,  he  sees  in  the 
proud  face  nothing  but  love  for  him,  not  a  guilty  love. 
No,  she  looks,  this  terrible  woman,  as  his  mother  might 
look  upon  him. 

"Drink,  save  thyself — for — for  thy  mother's  sake? 

Ah !  it  has  decided  him,  he  raises  the  little  bottle  to  his 
lips,  and  he  is  saved. 

She  knows  now  he  will  obey  her. 

She  runs  quickly  to  a  secret  door  —  for  such  a  palace 
must  have  secret  doors  —  and  slides  it  open  ;  by  a  ges- 
ture she  bids  him  enter,  presses  his  long  hanging  sleeve 
to  her  breast  as  he  passes  her  —  and  he  is  gone.  Then, 
as  she  closes  the  door,  she  is  a  lioness  guarding  her  young. 
She  folds  her  arms  and  stands  there  waiting.  The  gentle- 
ness of  face  which  bade  the  soldier  drink  the  antidote  is 
gone.  She  stands  there  —  awful,  terrible,  alone.  No  one 
now  —  no  one  now  beyond  the  known  and  hated  LUCBK- 
ZIA  BOBGIA. 


LUCKEZIA  BOKGIA.  25 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  night  was  come,  and  the  Princess  IsTegroni's  palace 
was  a  blaze  of  light.  The  grand  ball  spoken  of  by  Orsi- 
ni,  was  taking  place,  and  all  Ferrara  was  there.  At  one 
table,  drinking  and  singing,  were  Orsini,  Gennaro,  and 
most  of  the  young  lords  who  were  present  at  the  unmask- 
ing of  the  Borgia  at  Venice.  They  were  chiefly  in  the 
suite  of  the  Venetian  ambassador,  and  now,  as  on  the 
night  at  Venice,  they  were  all  together,  as  friends  should 
be. 

"  "Would  you  believe  it,  Signers,"  said  the  Orsini,  gaily, 
"  you  see  Captain  Gennaro  here  by  the  merest  chance. 
He  was  furiously  preparing  to  fly  us,  when  I  came  upon 
him.  To  Venice  ;  would  you  believe  it,  he  was  departing 
for  Venice.  '  What,'  said  I,  '  did  we  not  swear  to  live  and 
die  together?  and  now  dost  thou  leave  me?'  'True,' 
said  he,  'yet  — '  But,  Signoras,  I  would  not  let  him  go. 
'  No,  no,'  said  I,  '  come  thou  to  the  ifcte  with  us,  and  I 
promise  I  will  start  with  thee  at  dawn.'  So,  behold,  we 
are  both  here." 

Applause,  followed  by  discussion  of  wines.  One  was 
for  Madeira,  another  for  Rhenish;  but  all  were  of  one 
opinion,  that  every  kind  of  wine  was  good. 

The  hours  crept  on,  the  guests  departed,  yet  was  the 
table  of  the  Venetians  occupied  by  the  Venetians  them- 
selves, and  by  many  ladies,  amongst  them  the  Princess. 

Gubetta  was  there,  and  kept  his  watchful  eye  upon  them 
all. 

"  I  am  tired  already,  and  will  go." 

" '  Tis  he  again,"  cried  Orsini ;  "  'tis  Gennaro  who  spoke. 
Gennaro,  hear  my  new  ballad." 

"  Ah,  ah." 

"Who  dareth  to  laugh  at  me?" 

"  I,  Gubetta,  and  the  rest  of  us.  Thou  art  an  eminent 
poet,  truly." 

"  An  insult,  Signers." 

"  If  laughing  is  insulting  thee,  I  do ;  ah,  ah." 

"  Castilian  renegade  ! " 
2 


26 

"Roman  bully!" 

In  a  moment  the  place  was  in  confusion.  The  women 
fled,  the  seats  were  overturned,  and  the  Orsini  and  his  ene- 
my had  armed  themselves  with  knives  from  the  table,  for 
it  was  the  wise  custom  to  deliver  arms  at  the  door  where 
feasts  and  rejoicings  were  held. 

"  Respect  the  Princess,"  said  one,  holding  back  the  Or- 
sini. 

"  The  guard  will  break  open  the  doors,"  said  a  second, 
restraining  the  Spaniard. 

"  To-morrow,  Signors,  to-morrow." 

"  When  you  may  fight  with  swords." 

"  And  not  with  knives  like  highwaymen." 

"  Signors,"  said  the  spy,  Gubetta,  now  that  his  ruse  for 
removing  the  women  had  succeeded.  *  Signers,  I  was 
wrong." 

"  Truly ;  and  to  prove  it,  Orsini  shall  sing  us  his  song." 

"Orsini  witt? 

u  Wine,  wine.** 

«  Truly,  Signors,  wine."  Thus  Gubetta.  «  There,  cup- 
bearer. My  faith,  Signers,  this  is  Siracusa,  the  noblest 
drink.  Let  me  pour  for  you."  And  he,  took  the  tankard, 
no  one  wondering  where  the  bearer  of  it  sprung  from. 
Nay,  they  took  each  a  cup,  and  crowded  round  the  Span- 
ish spy,  each  calling  laughingly  for  a  share  of  the  Sira- 
cusa. 

"Nay,  nay,  Signors — there  is  enough  for  all." 

u  Thou  hast  poured  all  out,  Gubetta.  Thou  hast  none 
—  now  drink  with  me,  Orsini, from  the  same  cup.  'Twill 
drown  our  quarrel." 

"  Nay,  Signor  Orsini,  as  a  punishment  on  me,  drink  thou 
the  whole  draught  thyself." 

"Obedience  is  good-will.    Behold — the  cup  is  empty." 

"Orsini!  Orsini!  the  song." 

«  Here  'tis." 

•  Oh,  I'll  teach  you  the  secret  I've  taught  me, 

I  mean  the  sure  way  to  be  glad, 
'Tis  —  or  cloudy  —  or  freezing  —  or  sunshine, 
Oh  !  never,  .oh  !  never  be  SAO. 


LUCREZIA   BORGIA.  27 

«i  Oh  !  —  oh  —  sing,  drink,  and  laugh  at  the  madmep 

Who  give  to  the  future  a  thought; 
Let  to-morrow  look  after  to-inorrow, 
For  double  is  trouble  -when  sought." 

Hark  — as  the  last  note  dies  away,  there  is  a  slow  chant* 
ing  without. 

"  TlIE  JOY  OF  THE  PROPANE  IS  A  PASSING  SMOKE." 

As  the  solemn  sound  reaches  them,  the  very  light  seems 
to  pass  away.  For  it  is  late,  and  the  lights  are  dying 
out. 

"  What  voices  are  these  ?  " 

«  Tis  a  jest." 

"  Bah  —  another  verse." 

«  Oh  —  'tis  ready." 

'*  Let  us  smile  on  the  youth  that  smiles  on  us, 

For  youth  of  all  joys  is  the  crown  ; 
While  if  death  for  a  moment  draw  nigh  us, 
And  he  should  ungraciously  frown. 

"  Oh  !  —  oh  —  sing,  drink,  and  laugh  at  that  madman 

Who  gives  to  the  future  a  thought ; 
Let  to-morrow  look  after  to-morrow, . 
For  double  is  trouble  when  sought." 

"  THE  JOY  OF  THE  PROFANE  IS   BUT  A  PASSING  SMOKE." 

"  Again  those  sounds  !  " 

"  See  —  see,  how  the  lights  are  going  out." 

"Gennaro,  I  can  barely  see  thee." 

"  Orsini,  Orsini,  here." 

"  Methinks  this  is  no  jest,"  cried  another. 

And  the  six  came  close  together.  Amongst  them  was 
no  Gubetta. 

A  moment  or  two  of  bated  breath,  still  the  lights  are 
fading.  Another  moment,  and  the  room  is  almost  dark  as 
midnight. 

"  Let  us  fly." 

They  drew  to  the  great  door,  sped  rapidly  up  the  steps, 
and  then  the  whole  six  stood  motionless,  their  hands 
pressing  against  the  unyielding  doors. 

They  came  down  from  the  steps,  but  the  next  moment 
the  doors  swung  open,  and  as  they  turned  towards  them, 
thinking,  perhaps,  for  a  moment,  that  it  was  a  jest  —  be* 


23  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

hold  there  stood  Lucrezia  Borgjn,  looking  down  on  them, 
proud,  triumphant  —  a  demon.  Behind  her  were  men-at- 
arms,  ready  to  do  her  utmost  will. 

"  Lost !  —  lost !  —  lost !  " 

"Yes,  Signers.  Lost.  You  gave  me  a  ball  at  Venice. 
In  return  I  give  you  a  supper  here  in  Ferrara.  For  you, 
my  guests,  I  have  prepared  five  shrouds,  which  shall  en- 
wrap you  when  the  poison  now  coursing  through  your 
blood,  hath  diligently  done  its  duty." 

"  Five  did'st  thou  say  ?    But  here  are  six  of  us ! " 

"  Oh  heavens,  Gennaro ! " 

Then  rapidly  she  turned  to  the  guard  behind  her ;  al- 
most by  a  gesture  she  bade  them  remove  the  destroyed 
gentlemen,  and  coming  down  the  steps,  called  to  Gennaro 
to  remain. 

Helpless  —  lost  —  they  showed  no  spirit.  Hope  had 
utterly  left  them.  They  embraced  their  friend  Gennaro 
one  after  the  other,  and  went  mournfully  from  the  hall. 
Gennaro  alone  remaining,  she  ran  swiftly  to  the  doors, 
bidding  one  close  them,  and  ordering  that  whatever  hap- 
pened, no  one  should  enter  the  room. 

"  Thou  wert  here,  Gennaro,  thou  wert  here." 

"  Near  my  friends,  lady." 

"  Again  thou  art  poisoned." 

"  And  my  friends,  lady  ?  " 

Suddenly  her  face  lit  up.  "  The  antidote,  the  antidote 
I  gave  thee." 

Love  of  life  is  strong  —  so  he  felt  for  the  little  bottle, 
and  he  held  it  before  her. 

"Drink  it." 

"  No  —  with  my  friends  I  either  live  or  die." 

She  took  the  little  bottle,  looked  at  it  agonizingly,  and 
then  said,  "There  is  barely  enough  for  thee.  Holy  virgin, 
he  has  cast  it  to  the  ground." 

"But  if  I  must  die,  thou  demon  —  if  I,  my  friend,  my 
dear  Orsini,  if  we  all  die,  shalt  thou  live  —  thou  ?  All ! 
thou  also  hast  reached  death  ;  none  will  come  to  help 
thee;  hast  thou  not  closed  the  door  thyself.  Prepare 
thee,  thou  shalt  die  !  " 

See  how  the  knife  glitters  in  the  pale  moonlight  as  it 
sweeps  high  up  into  the  air. 


LUCKEZIA   BORGIA.  29 

"  Gennaro !  Gennaro !  wouldst  thou  kill  me  ?  " 

"  On  thy  knees.  I  grant  thee  that  mercy,  die  on  thy 
knees." 

«  I  forbid  thee ! " 

"  Thou  forbid  me,  thou  who  hast  destroyed  me.  To 
thy  knees  !  To  thy  knees  !  " 

lie  forces  her  to  her  knees.  Again  the  avenging  steel 
is  high  in  the  air.  Another  moment  and  he  shall  thrust 
it  downwards  thi-ough  the  air  —  down,  down,  into  her 
wicked  heart.  But  she  speaks  five  words  —  and  see !  The 
Bteel  has  fallen  from  his  hand,  and  is  lying  harmless  on 
the  floor,  his  hands  are  clasped  upon  his  head,  and  she 
may  kill  him  without  fear  and  so  save  herself.  What  is 
it  then  she  has  said  ?  The  words  were  :  — 

"  Hold  —  thou  art  a  Borgia." 

Hark  to  what  he  whispers.     "I  —  I  a  Borgia? " 

"  Thy  ancestors  were  mine.  Thou  durst  not  shed  the 
blood  of  thy  people." 

"I  — I  a  Borgia?" 

"  What  have  I  said  ?  have  I  forbidden  thee  to  kill  me  ? 
Rather  I  should  bid  thee  kill  me,  for  each  day  I  die  a 
thousand  deaths.  And  thou,  oh  live,  live,  Gennaro.  If 
thou  canst  save  thyself,  and  if  thou  wilt  not,  thou  dost 
destroy  thyself.  See,  see,  the  phial  is  not  broken.  Thou 
canst  yet  be  saved.  Ah !  thou  takest  it  from  my  hand. 
Drink!  drink!" 

"  I  —  I  a  Borgia  ?  " 

"  Drink.  No,  do  not  hear  that  sound,  'tis  nothing  — 
'tis  but  the  wind." 

"  Oh  Maffio,  'tis  thy  voice,  the  poison  kills  thy  youth 
the  first.  Good  bye,  good  bye." 

"  They  shall  live,  if  thou  wilt  save  thyself  For  thy 
mother's  sake." 

"  How  darest  thou  name  my  mother  ?  " 

"  And  who  may  name  her,  if  not  I  ?  " 

"  Perchance,  thou  didst  destroy  her  also." 

"  Ah,  no  !  she  lives." 

"  She  lives,  she  lives,  and  I  shall  never  see  her." 

Here  the  quick  poison  struck  him  so  that  he  reeled 
against  a  high  Gothic  pillar  to  save  himself  from  falling, 
and  as  his  hands  lay  on  his  breast,  he  leaned  his  head 


30  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

slowly  backward,  and  still  he  cried  "Mother,  mother, 
that  I  could  die  in  her  arms.  Back,  back,  woman,  do  not 
touch  me.  Oh,  mother!  mother!" 

u  A  woman,  guilty,  yet  penitent,  quailing  and  kneeling 
at  the  feet  of  him  whom  she  has  slain,  who  lowers  hoi- 
head  as  I  do  mine,  and  fearingly  doth  shut  out  sight  by 
covering  her  eyes  with  both  her  hands,  as  I  do,  Gennaro. 
This  woman  is  thy  mother." 

As  she  spoke,  he  was  sustaining  himself  against  the 
Gothic  pillar,  like  a  brave  man  as  he  was,  willing  to  meet 
death  standing  —  rocking  round  the  pillar  from  right  to 
left,  and  clinging  to  it  with  weak  hands. 

But  the  last  words  stay  him.  Rigid  he  stands  for  a 
moment,  then  as  she  flinches  away  from  him,  yet  stretch- 
ing  out  her  arms,  he  falls  down,  and  to  her  breast. 

"  In  my  mother's  arms.  At  last  in  my  mother's  arms, 
I  die." — And  as  her  arms  crept  round  him  he  was  dead. 

As  he  lay  there,  she  looking  on  him,  the  doors  were 
opened,  notwithstanding  her  orders,  and  there  at  the 
head  of  the  steps  stood  the  duke  and  many  ladies.  No 
fear  now  had  she  of  him,  her  Gennaro  was  dead.  He 
might  come  and  scorn,  upbraid,  insult  her  now.  No 
matter,  she  did  not  care. 

Hark !  she  speaks. 

"  He  was  my  son,  my  hope,  my  comfort.  He  would 
have  saved  me.  Where  now  is  hope?  All  lost.  All 
lost.  Heaven  hath  turned  from  me." 

Her  head  fell  and  her  cheek  lay  against  her  child's. 

They  went  to  lift  her.  And  then  they  learnt  that  she 
was  dead. 

So,  destroyed  by  the  only  godlike  evidence  she  ever 
had,  the  love  she  bore  her  child,  lay  Lucrezia  Borgia,  cold 
upon  the  palace  floor. 

[NOTE. —  The  general  notion  of  Lucrezia  Borgia  seems  to  partnke  of 
the  nature  of  a  popular  error.  Though  the  sister  to  the  great  Cesare 
was  not,  perhaps,  the  most  discreet  lady  in  the  world,  and  though 
drama,  opera,  and  tale  have  represented  her  as  "  the  great  poisoner  of 
the  fifteenth  century,"  no  authentic  account  of  a  crime  of  this  nature 
has  yet  appeared.  It  is  true  that  she  married  thrice,  and  that  tradition 
gives  her  a  hand  in  the  deaths  of  two  of  her  husbands,  but  no  criminal 


LTJCREZIA  BORGIA.  31 

charge  has  been  really  substantiated  against  her.  It  is  well  that  the 
truth  be  told  of  so  famous  a  historical  personage,  even  though  a  whole 
library  of  fine  fiction  be  thereby  destroyed.  Hie  lived  in  a  profligate 
court,  and  was  doubtless  witness  to  many  flagitious  scenes,  but  that  is 
all  that  can  be  said  against  her.  On  the  other  side  of  the  picture  we 
have  her  charities,  her  beauty,  her  wisdom,  and  her  devotion,  in  the 
latter  years  of  her  life,  to  virtue  and  religion. —  ED.] 


DON    GIOVANNI.    (MOZART.) 

(DON  JUAN.) 


CHAPTER  I. 

A  TALE  whispered  and  told  to  children  all  Spain 
through.  And  why  should  not  a  statue  have  power  to 
epeak  ? 

Don  Juan  lived  in  a  city  of  Castille,  lived  a  godless, 
reckless  life  ;  and  as  for  that  matter  so  did  his  factotum 
Leporello.  If  the  don  climbed  a  ladder,  Leporello  held 
it ;  if  the  don  had  to  be  thrashed,  Leporello  often  caught 
the  blows.  He  might  have  had  a  better  service,  and  he 
frequently  complained  of  the  don's,  but  he  did  not  leave 
it  till  the  don  had  no  further  need  of  a  factotum. 

One  night  he  was  watching  as  usual,  and  grumbling 
as  usual,  "what  a  life  was  his,  to  be  harrassed  day  and 
night,  blown  by  the  wind,  cut  at  by  the  rain,  robbed  of 
sleep,  and  all  for  what?  no  wages  paid,  and  half  starva- 
tion." For  the  thousandth  time  he  had  resolved  to  get 
him  a  new  master,  when  the  noise  of  footsteps  made  him 
discreetly  retire. 

Next  moment  where  he  had  been  standing,  was  a 
woman  striving  to  detain  a  cavalier,  and  calling  all  the 
time  for  help. 

"  Lot  me  go,  I  say,  for  thine  own  sake,  let  me  go." 

"Help,  help." 

A  quick,  heavy  step,  and  a  third  person  was  there,  an 
old  man,  his  white  hair  streaming  in  the  moonlight. 

The  lady  let  go  her  hold,  as  the  new  coiner  ran  forward, 
his  sword  bravely  out  before  him. 

Yet  he  did  not  at  once  fall  on  this  thief  coming  in 
the  nighttime.  He  called  on  him  to  defend  himself. 

Said  the  othei',  placing  himself,  so  that  the  golden  braid 
about  him  glistened  in  the  moonlight,  "Begone,  my 
sword  is  not  crossed  with  such  as  yours." 


DON   GIOVANS1.  38 

"Defend  yourself,  I  say." 

"  Ah  !  dotard,  if  thon  bravest  me." 

A  little  sawing  of  the  swords,  a  click  or  two,  and  the 
white  hair  is  touching  the  dust. 

"  Dead,  by  the  rood  !  "  exclaimed  the  cavalier,  wiping 
his  sword.  "  Here,  Leporello,  here  !  " 

"  Sinner  that  I  am  — behold  me,  master.  Thou  art  not 
killed  —  then  the  old  man  is  ?  " 

"  Surely,  the  old  can  better  be  spared  than  the  young." 

"  Rare,  rare,  my  master,  to  break  into  the  chamber  of 
the  daughter,  and  to  kill  the  father,  both  in  one  night. 
Rare,  oh  !  rare." 

"  By  my  faith,  he  thrust  himself  upon  my  sword.  Come, 
let  us  go.  See,  torches  are  flickering  near." 

And  without  fear  or  hurry,  the  young  don  moved  away, 
not  swaggeringly,  yet  audaciously,  followed  by  the  tremb- 
ling Leporello. 

Another  moment,  and  the  light  of  torches  was  gleam- 
ing on  the  face  of  the  dead.  The  old  man's  daughter, 
Donna  Anna,  had  hastened  away  for  assistance,  and  re- 
turned with  it  but  to  find  her  father  slain,  the  warm  blood 
gurgling  out  from  his  heart  on  to  the  cold  and  thirsty 
ground. 

With  herw-ts  the  Don  Ottavio,  her  betrothed,  but  he 
was  nothing  to  her  in  her  grief,  as  she  leant  over  her  dead 
father. 

Then  came  the  solitary  procession,  bearing  one  dead 
into  his  house,  who  but  a  little  while  agone  was  hale  and 
strong,  even  in  his  age. 

Meanwhile,  the  don  was  forgetting  the  tragedy. 

Even  the  next  evening  he  was  in  the  streets  with  Lepo- 
rello, seeking  some  new  adventures. 

"  Well,  Leporello,  and  pray  Avhat  is  it  thou  hast  to  tell 
me?" 

"  It  is  important  —  it  is  grave." 

"  Better  and  better." 

"  Now  good  master,  promise  not  to  be  wrath." 

«  So  that  it  doth  not  relate  to  Don  Pedro." 

"  Unless  thou  art  Don  Pedro,  it  doth  not  relate  to  him." 

"  Speak  out ! " 

M  Verily,  thy  life  is  infamous ! " 
2* 


84  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

"  Rapscallion." 

"And  thy  promise,  good  master,  thy  promise." 

"  What !  thou  darst  to  suppose  /keep  promises." 

"  To  me,  yes,  of  a  verity,  I  m  dumb,  I'm  dumb." 

"  The  way  to  friendship.     Now,  why  am  I  here  ?  " 

"  An  affair.  The  name  of  the  damsel,  for  my  list,  good 
master,  for  the  perfectioning  of  my  list." 

"  Write  her  down  Venus,  for  she  hath  her  form.  I  shall 
whisper  her  at  the  Casino ;  but  tarry  a  little,  here  cometh 
one  —  whom  —  " 

"In  truth  my  master  hath  a  good  eye." 

"  At  a  glance,  I  see  she  is  handsome." 

"  And  also  she  hath  a  brave  eye  1 " 

"  Let  us  retire  a  little." 

"  He  hath  fired  already.     O  rare." 

Into  the  shadow  they  crept  (the  don  dealt  largely  in 
shadows.) 

'Twas  a  Spanish  beauty,  and  a  pensive  beauty,  who 
came  slowly  along. 

"  Lepo,  'tis  a  damsel  who  hath  need  of  condolement." 

"  He  hath  condoled  with  many  of  them,  this  master  of 
mine." 

"  Senorita,  Senorita,     Heaven  ! " 

"  Ha !  'tis  Donna  Elvira;  O  rare  —  rare." 

"  'Tis  you,  Don  Juan  —  monster,  robber ! " 

u'Tis  an  old  acquaintance,  as  one  shall  read  by  the 
tongue." 

" Donna  1  quiet,  quiet  (what  misfortune);  if  thou  wilt 
not  believe  me,  thou'lt  believe  this  worthy  gentleman." 

"  In  faith  I  that's  Leporello  —  " 

"  He  '11  tell  thee  all ;  I  pray  thee  turn  to  him." 

And  the  lady  doing  so,  the  don  took  advantage  of  the 
shadow,  and  was  off  anywhere. 

"  Well,  villain,  speak  1 " 

"  In  faith,  good  lady,  it  may  be  declared,  seeing  the 
world  we  live  in,  that  a  square  is  ne'er  a  round,  or  equally 
a  round  a  square ;  and  yet  —  " 

"  Cease,  scrub ;  and  thou,  Don  Juan  —  gone  !  The 
monster  hath  gone !  Which  way  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  marry,  which  way !  though  wherefore  shouldst 
thou  care ;  he  is  not  worth  the  kindness  of  so  consider- 
able a  lady." 


DON   GIOVANNI.  35 

u  Ah,  he  leaves  me ! " 

"  By  your  leave,  lady,  'tis  not  the  first  lady  he  hath  fled 
from.  Have  I  not  here  a  book,  which  hath  weight  in  it,  I 
wan-ant  thee ;  and  if  it  be  not  filled  with  the  names  of 
the  ladies  he  hath  fled  from,  with  the  particulars  of  their 
birth,  parentage,  and  residences,  the  evil  one  hath  played 
false  with  my  handwriting,  or  some  good  angel  hath,  in 
pity  to  my  master,  wiped  out  the  faithful  record.  See 
now,  in  Italy  he  flies  me  six  hundred  and  forty ;  in  Ger- 
many, he  hath  ruined  two  hundred  and  thirty-one ;  one 
hundred  in  France  ;  thou  shalt  repeat  me  that  number  for 
Turkey ;  but  here  in  Spain  he  hath  destroyed  the  peace 
of  one  thousand  and  three." 

Here  the  serving  man  dutifully  followed  his  master  into 
shadow,  and  scudded  away  harder  and  harder  when  he 
heard  the  pattering  of  little  feet  behind  him. 


CHAPTER  II. 

LITTLE  Zerlina  was  a  little  country  maiden,  as  happy 
as  the  sun  was  bright,  and  as  fond  of  Masetto  as  the  bee 
of  sweet  flowers. 

As  for  Masetto,  he  loved  Zerlina  as  honest  natives  do 
love,  with  his  whole  heart,  and  he  thought  nobody  equal 
to  Zerlina. 

And  that  day  was  come  when  Zerlina  and  Masetto  were 
to  be  nobody's  business,  and  more,  and  were  to  be  all  in 
all  to  each  other  for  life ;  they  were  going  to  be  married. 

The  country  folk  were  blythe  and  happy,  and  full  of 
the  wedding,  chatting,  laughing,  and  wishing  the  bride 
and  bridegroom  happy,  when  a  grand  Don,  accompanied 
by  his  servant,  for  he  walked  behind,  caused  the  prattle  to 
die  away  into  silence. 

M  I'faith,  pretty  creatures !  a  marriage,  good  friends  ? 
Nay,  go  on  with  your  sports  —  go  on." 

"  Yes,  good  my  lord,  and  I  am  the  bride." 

"  A  lovely  bride  !  And  who'g  the  biidegroom  ?  " 

"  So  please  you,  at  your  service,  here,  I  call  myself  Ma- 
setto." 


36  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

w  Spoken  bravely ! " 

u  O  rare !  he  hath  the  build  of  a  husband,  hath  he  not  ?  " 

Here  the  little  bride,  who  was  a  little  vain,  and  who 
rather  plumed  herself  upon  talking  to  a  grandee,  said, 
"  Masetto  hath  an  excellent  heart." 

"  And  also  have  I,  so  we  should  be  friends ;  and,  prythee, 
what  do  they  call  thee  ?  " 

"  Zerlina,  so  please  you." 

"And  so  please  you,  I  call  myself  Masetto." 

For  truth  to  tell,  the  little  rustic  wae  growing  jealous. 

"  And  you  two  are  to  be  married.  Well,  well ;  I  do 
offer  you  my  protection,  aye,  and  my  house.  Leporello, 
show  these  good  people  to  my  house,  give  them  what  they 
will ;  and  for  the  bridegroom,  he  is  the  guest  of  honor, 
Leporello  —  pay,  if  thou  valuest  whole  bones,  excellent 
attention  to  the  bridegroom." 

"  I  seize  thee,  master,  I  seize  thee."  Thus  the  man, 
speaking  softly  to  the  master.  Then  the  man  said  to  the 
lucky  bridegroom :  "  So  please  you,  walk  by  me.  And  all 
you  rustics,  follow  heartily." 

"  But,  good  sir,  Zerlina  must  come  with  me." 

"'Tis  not  etiquette  that  thou  shouldst  be  bound  to  her 
side.  Good  friend,  come  walk  by  me.  The  Senor  him- 
self will  care  for  her  right  heartily.  So  please  thee,  walk 
walk." 

;'  Oh  !  be  not  afraid,  Masetto,  the  senor  will  guard  me." 

"But!  — but!  — " 

"  Verily,  friend  Masetto,  thou  art  little  better  than  a 
curmudgeon.  Walk,  I  say,  walk." 

"  Dost  thou  not  breathe  more  lightly,  Zerlina  ?  " 

«  Wherefore,  Senor  ?  " 

"  That  the  clown  hath  gone." 

"  Nay  —  he  hath  my  love  ! " 

"  A  king  should  have  thy  love  ;  those  pi'etty  lips,  those 
eyes,  those  little  fingers,  were  not  made  for  clowns." 

"Nay —  but  T  love  him ! " 

"  And  I  love  thee.  A  poor  home,  and  a  poor  husband 
—  is  this  thy  lot  ?  See  away  there,  'tis  my  house,  'tis  my 
palace.  I  love  thee,  I  love  thee.  Wilt  thou  be  my  wile, 
Zerlina?" 

«  Wife,  Senor,  thy  wife  ?  " 


DON   GIOVANNI.  37 

"  Choose  between  us,  Masetto  or  Don  Juan." 

"I  —  I,  then,  a  great  lady.     Yet,  Masetto." 

"  Come  my  love,  come,  my  love." 

But  the  don  started  and  turned  pale,  for  as  he  made  a 
step  forward  with  the  simple  little  Zerlina,  there  was 
standing  Donna  Elvira. 

"  Thou  seest,"  he  said  rapidly,  before  she  could  speak, 
"  I  am  but  toying  with  her  simplicity,  I  mean  no  harm," 

"No  harm,  Don  Juan,  thou  art  destruction." 

"  Nay,  believe  her  not,  charming  Zerlina,  'tis  a  poor 
forlorn  creature,  who  followeth  me  because  I  cannot  love 
her.  Well,  if  she  will  not  quit  me,  I  will  her  j "  and 
tightly  he  ran  away. 

She  pitied  him,  did  the  donna,  nay  she  still  loved  him 
somewhat;  but  for  all  that,  she  warned  Zerlina  of  him 
and  went  away  with  that  simple  little  maiden,  hand  in 
hand. 

Barely  had  they  left  the  spot,  than  Don  Juan  was  upon 
it  again,  for  he  had  determined  upon  keeping  the  little 
village  maiden  in  view.  But  barely  had  he  returned  to 
the  spot  than  he  was  accosted  by  one  whom  1  e  would 
fain  have  not  seen,  Don  Ottavio,  the  cavalier  cf  Donna 
Anna. 

The  don  was  not  easily  abashed,  so  he  came  lightly  to 
Ottavio's  side,  but  he  thought  to  himself  that  this  was  one 
of  his  unlucky  days. 

"  This  meeting  is  fortunate,  Don  Juan,  if  thou  hast  a 
generous  heart." 

"  I  hope  for  thy  sake  and  mine  own,  that  I  have." 

"  For  we  have  need  of  thy  friendship." 

"  I  breathe  again,"  thought  the  don,  who,  brave  as  he 
was,  had  trembled  in  meeting  the  injured  lady,  Donna 
Anna.  "  Command  me,"  he  said  aloud,  "  iny  arms  are 
thine,  if  'tis  a  question  of  arms.  But  Donna  Anna,  why 
these  tears  ?  " 

"  Do  nut  hear  him,"  said  a  voice ;  and  the  three  turning, 
saw  Donna  Elvira,  who  had  determined  to  keep  Juan  in 
view ;  "  do  not  hear  him,  he  hath  destroyed  me." 

"  Pardon  her  Ottavio,  and  you,  Donna  Anna,  she  is  a 
poor  deranged  lady ;  leave  her  to  me." 

"  Do  not  believe  him ! " 


88  TALES  FROM  THE  OPEEA8. 

«  Poor  lady !  You  see  1 " 

"  Do  not  believe  him  ! " 

Donna  Anna  and  Ottavio  seemed  puzzled  by  this  meet- 
ing. The  lady  seemed  sane,  and  yet  Don  Juan  was  a  man 
of  probity,  said  all  the  world. 

He  bade  her  be  still ;  but  she  called  out  more  loudly 
than  before,  that  he  was  her  destroyer ;  and  as  she  changed 
color,  and  struck  her  foot  upon  the  ground,  Ottavio  and 
Anna  shook  their  heads  as  though  deploring  her. 

Whereon,  the  poor  lady  seeing  their  error,  turned  from 
them,  and  walked  away  quickly. 

The  don  took  advantage  of  this  incident  to  rid  himself 
of  the  terrible  company  of  Ottavio  and  Anna,  and  so 
saying  that  for  her  dear  sake  he  would  follow  her,  he  fled 
away;  not  marking  the  terrified  start  that  Donna  Anna 
gave  as  he  turned  from  her. 

"  Dear  Anna,  how  pale  thou  art !  What  has  happened  ?" 

"  I  dare  not  say,  and  yet  I  dare  not  be  silent." 

"Speak!  speak!" 

w  As  I  li ve  —  as  I  live,  Ottavio,  Don  Juan  killed  my 
father." 

"  What  sayest  thou  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure ;  I  am  sure.  The  tones  of  the  last  words 
he  spoke  —  the  very  words  themselves.  Ottavio,  as  I  live 
he  killed  my  father;  'twas  he  who  entered  my  room; 
whom  I  held,  whom  I  followed,  who  turned  and  killed 
my  father!  I  ask  of  thee  that  vengeance  that  is  just, 
Ottavio.  Be  but  sure,  and  then  act;  thy  arm  shall  be 
strengthened  to  thy  work  by  my  love  —  by  the  memory 
of  my  bleeding  father!  Come,  come !  " 

Barely  had  the  couple  left  the  spot,  than  Leporello  and 
his  master  were  upon  it. 

"  If  I  fly  him  not,  the  foul  fiend  will  have  me ! " 

"  Well  my  little  Leporello  ?    All  well  ?  " 

"  No,  little  Don  Juan  ;  on  the  other  side,  all  ill" 

"Wherefore  ill?" 

"  Wherefore  ?  marry,  because  'tis.  Have  I  taken  them 
all  to  thy  house?  Yes  have  I.  Havel  spoken  lies  and 
flattery  in  thy  service,  that  I  am  lost  fou  ever?  Yes  have 
I.  Have  I  beguiled  Masetto  till  he  is  a  very  fool  ?  The 
tempter  knoweth  that  I  have,  The  men  J  have  set  dripk- 


DO'S  GIOVANNI.  39 

ing,  the  women  idem  (as  the  lawyers  have  it),  when,  who 
cometh,  if  not  my  little  Zerlina?  And  who  with  our 
little  Zerlina,  if  not  Madame  Elvira,  who  prythee  ?  She 
should  be  laid,  master ;  she  should  be  laid  like  a  vexed 
spirit.  .  And  she  hath  abused  me ;  my  faith !  hath  she 
abused  me  —  hath  she  laid  about  her  uncivilly  touching 


me 


"  And  what  saidst  thou  ?  " 

"  Marry,  the  best  thing  I  could  say.  .  .  nothing.  But 
when  she  hath  worn  herself  silent,  and  when  she  is,  if  I 
may  thus  say  it,  so  to  speak,  melting  in  tears,  I  take  me 
her  hand,  direct  her  to  the  street,  and  there  do  I  most 
gingerly  leave  her." 

44  Then,  she  being  gone,  I  may  be  there.  Now,  my 
Leporello,  wine,  wine ;  bring  us  plenty  of  wine,  for  'tis 
the  persuader  which  sinoothens  my  road  wonderfully." 

And,  taking  the  factotum  by  the  arm,  he  pushed  him 
along  before  him. 


CHAPTER  III. 

M  BUT  Masetto,  dear  Masetto." 

"  Get  thee  gone.  What !  thou  wouldst  caress  me,  thou 
false  Zerlina  P' 

"  But  I  love  thee." 

"  Then  hast  thou  a  marvellous  queer  way  of  showing 
it.  Thou  dost  bemean  me.  Thou  dost  make  fingers  to 
point  at  me,  and  then,  forsooth,  thou  dost  say  '  I  love  thee.* 
Pish !  for  pure  modesty's  sake  I  cry  '  shame.'  " 

44  But  I  love  thee.  He  did  deceive  me.  See,  if  thou 
lovest  me  not,  thou  dost  kill  me.  Wherefore  turnest  thou 
from  me  ?  I  love  thee,  I  love  thee." 

"  Thou  art  encompassed  with  immodesty." 

"  Beat  me,  beat  me,  thy  Zerlina,  here  she  stands,  beat 
me  ;  and  I'll  kiss  thy  hands  quite  meekly.  Beat  me,  beat 
me,  but  forgive  me,  for  I  love  thee,  dear  Masetto." 

"  Thou  hast  the  power  of  the  evil  one  to  overthrow 
me.  Truly,  man  is  weak." 

"  Beat  me,  beat  me.    Masetto,  here's  the  don." 


40  TALES   FBOM    TIIE    OPEKAS. 

"  Let  him  approach.     I  defy  him." 

"  I  fain  would  hide  myself." 

"  And,  marry,  I  fain  thou  shouldst  not.  Ho,  ho  —  she 
fears  I  shall  learn  secrets ;  ho,  ho,  ho,  thou  art  falsity.  I 
will  hide  myself." 

"  Nay,  if  he  find  thee,  he  will  beat  thee,  as  thou  wattcst 
not  of." 

"  Let  him  fear  me,  my  arm  is  strong." 

"  "Pis  hopeless  to  speak  to  him."     This  she  said  softly. 

"  Speak  loudly,  untruthful  woman,  speak  honestly  loud. 
(I  have  mine  ideas,  yes,  Masetto,  I  have  mine  ideas.)" 

And  he  hid  behind  a  tree. 

Said  the  little  woman  to  herself,  "  he  hath  a  wry  mind, 
Masetto ; "  and  then  she  ran  to  hiding  herself,  as  she  saw 
the  don  approach,  accompanied  by  several  peasants. 

He  dismissed  those  people  immediately,  and  then  called 
out  "  Zerlina,  come  thou  here." 

"  So  please  you,  let  me  go." 

"  My  angel,  I  love  thee  too  well." 

"  So  please  you,  if  thou  art  merciful,  let  me  go." 

M  Masetto,  come  thou  here  also." 

"  My  faith,  he  hath  marked  me,"  said  the  rustic,  and 
came  forward  sheepishly. 

"  Thy  Zerlina  is  unhappy  when  thou  art  not  near  her, 
why  dost  leave  her?  come,  be  merry,  I  will  go  with  you 
and  be  merry  with  you,"  and  he  walked  away  between 
them,  and  entered  his  house  with  them. 

Nor  did  he  see  three  masked  persons  following  him. 
Donna  Anna,  Donna  Elvira,  and  Don  Ottavio.  They 
were  following  him,  marking  him,  bringing  home  his  guilt 
to  him. 

Suddenly  Leporello  passing  a  window  of  the  house 
within,  saw  the  masks  and  called  out,  "  O  rare,  my  mas- 
ter, here  is  fit  company  for  thee,  my  master ;  here  are  la- 
dies, and  of  a  quality!  What  sayest  thou,  invite  them 
in.  Aye,  marry,  will  I.  Masks,  list,  fair  masks  ;  my  mas- 
ter greets  ye,  and  prays  ye  enter ;  ye  shall  find  good  en- 
tertainment." 

Still  watching  him,  still  tracing  the  crime  to  him,  they 
entered  the  house  of  the  murderer. 


DON   GIOVANNI.  41 


CHAPTER  IV. 

In  the  house  of  the  don  itself,  the  rustic  feast,  which  he 
had  improvised,  was  going  on  — 

"  Pray  ye,  Senors,  drink ;  I,  Leporello,  who  talk  to  ye, 
will  sip  chocolate,  but  ye  shall  take  what  ye  will  —  sher- 
bet, sweetmeats,  as  you  like  it  —  as  you  like  it." 

"  My  lovely  Zerlina,  thou  charmest  me." 

"  Thou  art  very  kind  Senor !  " 

"  My  faith,"  said  Masetto,  "  she  is  as  a  fine  lady ! " 

"  Oh !  rare,  I  love  ye  all,  ye  charmers." 

"If  thou  touchest  her,  Senor  Leporello,  I  will  touch 
thee,"  exclaimed  Masetto,  who  saw  the  factotum  eyeing 
the  simple,  charming  Zerlina. 

"  Methinks  he's  fallen  out  with  me  again,"  said  the  sim- 
ple Zerlina  to  herself. 

"  Of  a  verity,  I  shall  go  distraught,"  said  Masetto. 

Here  the  masks  entered. 

The  don  bowed  to  them,  then  called  out  to  the  musi- 
cians, and  went  gaily  up  to  Zerlina. 

"  That  —  that  is  the  poor  country  girl,"  said  one  of  the 
masks,  in  a  low  tone :  and  the  three  drew  together. 

"Verily,  I  tell  thee,  nor  will  I  dance  myself,  nor  shall 
she  dance :  I  love  not  these  pousettings." 

"  Verily,  and  I  tell  thee,  Masetto,  thou  art  a  rare  fool,  a 
fool  such  as  the  world  hath  never  seen.  Be  merry,  I  say 
be  merry ;  nay,  thou  shalt  be  merry." 

And  the  man  of  stratagem  playfully  thrust  about  the 
uneasy  rustic,  while  the  master  led  away  the  young  girl. 
Then  the  dancing  began,  and  soon  the  don  had  thrust  Zer- 
lina into  a  closet,  unperceived,  he  hoped,  but  fully  marked 
b}  the  eyes  under  the  masks. 

At  once  they  ran  towards  the  door,  as  the  girl  called 
out  loudly,  "  Ilelp !  help  !  " 

"Verily,  'tis  her  own  voice  — help  me,  masters,  help !  " 

Here  the  don  entered  by  another  door,  and,  sword  in 
hand,  fell  upon  the  luckless  Leporello.  "What,  thou 
wicked  servant,  thou  destroyer,  wouldst  thou,  in  thy  mas- 


42  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

ter's  house,  send  thyself  to  perdition?  Ho,  hoi  thou 
shalt  die." 

The  simple  folk  were  inclined  to  believe  the  don,  and 
would  have  fallen  upon  the  servant,  who  cried  under  his 
breath,  «'Tis  the  fiend  himself." 

But  the  wearers  of  the  masks  showed  their  faces  — Don 
Ottavio,  Donna  Anna,  and  Donna  Elvira. 

And  they  unmasked  him,  too,  for  they  pointed  to  him 
as  the  ravisher. 

Then  they  threatened  him,  stood  about  him  with  angry 
glances.  Nearer  and  nearer  they  came,  and  as  though  ap- 
proving them,  the  thunder  muttered  high  in  the  air. 

But  he  was  fearless ;  on  heaven,  or  earth,  or  both,  he 
cared  not.  Like  a  baffled  tiger,  he  flew  at  his  enemies,  cut 
his  way  through  them,  and  was  saved. 


CHAPTER  V. 

u  I  tell  thee,  master,  'twere  death  to  stay  with  thee." 

"  Then  thou  hadst  best  depart." 

"  Verily  will  I,  and  quickly." 

"  Yet  why  desert  me,  thy  old  master  ?  " 

"  What  ho !  thou  beatest  me,  thou  dost  threaten  to  kill 
me ;  am  I  kicked,  am  I  cuffed  ?  Wherefore  is  it  that  I 
am  kicked  and  cuffed  ?  Now,  tell  me  Lliat,  master?  " 

«  Le-po-rel-lo ! " 

"  So,  my  master  —  " 

"  What !  shall  we  not  be  friends  again  ?  I  say,  yes. 
Ope  thy  hand." 

"  How  much  ?  " 

"  Four  pistoles,  Le-po-rel-lo." 

"  Good !  rare !  but  I  tell  thee,  that  if  thou  thinkest  a 
man  of  my  mettle  is  to  be  bought  with  dirty  gold,  as  thou 
wouldst  buy  of  the  weaker  sex,  thou  thinkest  mainly 
wrong,  my  master." 

"Nay,  drop  thy  hand,  there  be  no  more  pistoles." 

"  Avaunt !  the  gold ;  but  if  I  stay  by  thee,  thou  wilt 
promise  to  abandon  women  ?  " 

"  Aye,  aye  1 " 


DON   GIOVANNI.  43 

"  Nay,  dost  thou  not  harm  them  ?  " 

"  I,  who  love  them  all !  Is  not  he  cruel  to  all  who  lov- 
eth  but  one  ?  I  do  abhor  cruelty,  therefore  do  I  love  all 
women.  And  yet  are  there  women  who  stand  by  thy 
metaphysics,  and  call  this  love  of  mine  perfidy." 

"If  thy  love  is  benevolence,  Avhich  is  charity,  then  art 
thou  saved,  and  ait  sure  of  a  cool  heaven." 

"  But  thou  didst  never  see  so  sweet  a  woman.  And  I 
had  thy  dress  ?  " 

"  Marry,  is  she  so  sweet  that  she  loveth  a  patched  jer- 
kin ?  " 

"  Her  mistress  is  not  a  patch  upon  her;  and  her  mistress 
is  Donna  Elvira," 

"  What !  wouldst  make  the  maid  weep  also  ?  " 

"I  would  rather  the  maid  wept  than  Leporello.  See, 
'tis  the  house,  and  behold  Elvira  at  the  window.  I  will 
speak  to  her  —  Elvira !  dear  Elvira !  " 

"  Who  speaketh  ?  Methinks  'tis  the  voice  of  the  per- 
jured Don  Juan  ! " 

"'Tis  Juan,  who  prays  thee  to  forgive  him." 

"  My  faith  !  Of  a  verity  I  believe  she  will  trust  him. 
O  rare  !  O  rare  !  " 

"  Thou  art  a  traitor,  Juan." 

"  Nay,  descend,  love,  that  I  may  kiss  thy  tears  away.'* 

"Methinks,  I  shall  very  fairly  crack  with  laughing. 
This  is  good.  This  is  good,  rare." 

"  Dear  Elvira,  come  to  me,  come  to  me." 

"  She  yieldeth  now.  By  my  faith,  I  would  I  had  such 
a  deft  tongue  i'  my  head.  She  hath  left  the  window." 

"  Friend  Leporello,  dost  thou  not  admire  me  ?" 

"  Master,  if  thou  comest  not  from  heaven,  of  a  surety  I 
know  thy  cradle  —  'tis  below,  master,  'tis  below  ! " 

"  Now  remember  thee  of  this.  When  she  cometh  out, 
smother  her  in  thy  arms.  Speak  as  I  speak,  yet  not  fine 
like  a  woman.  Then  deftly  discourse  her  away." 

"  Good.     But  if  she  find  me  out?  " 

"  Then  hsidst  thou  best  scarify  thyself." 

"  Good.  My  faith,  a  pretty  posture  mine.  I  will  leavo 
this  master.  I  Avill  leave  him." 

Here  the  luckless  lady  came  from  the  house. 

"  Nay  Juan,  did  I  ever  think  my  sorrow  would  melt  thy 
heart.  Thou  dost,  then,  repent  thee  of  thy  desertion?" 


44  TALES  FROM  THE  OPEBAS. 

«  Aye,  do  I." 

"  I  have  sighed  as  the  south  wind  sigheth  all  the  long 
night  through." 

«  Eugh." 

"  But  thou  wilt  never  leave  me  again." 

"Angel,  never." 

a  Thou  wilt  forever  be  mine." 

«  Eugh." 

"  And  thou  wilt  never  deceive  me  again  ?  " 

«  Ne — e — ver." 

"  Thou  wilt  swear." 

u  I  swear  by  this  kiss  upon  thy  hand." 

"  Ha !  ha !  ho !  the  guard,  the  guard."  Thus  cried  Don 
Juan,  while  the  unfortunate  lady  ran  quickly  away. 

The  don  was  about  to  enter  at  the  open  door,  when  he 
stopped  suddenly,  as  he  sawMasetto  come  stealthily  along, 
accompanied  by  some  friends.  For  the  young  Zerliua's 
sake  he  was  interested. 

"  Now,  who  goeth  there  ?  " 

"  A  friend ;  my  faith,  'tis  Masetto.  Ah,  Masetto  !  What, 
knowest  thou  me  not  ?  " 

"  Why,  thou  art  the  very  foul  one's  servant ! " 

u  Don  Juan's ;  ah,  'tis  a  base  man,  Masetto ;  a  base 
man.  I  have  left  him  for  a  godly  service." 

"  Truly  ?  But  canst  thou  tell  me  where  I  shall  find 
him,  for  we  would  fain  cudgel  him  to  death  ?  " 

"  Good.  I  will  help  you,  my  master,  to  punish  this  sin- 
ner unparalleled.  He  is  near  at  hand,  my  masters,  and 
making  love,  for  he  hath  a  rare  habit  of  making  love.  Go 
you  —  all.  I  and  Masetto  will  follow  you." 

So  the  peasants  went  off  stealthily  on  their  toes,  each 
hoping  to  have  a  hand  in  towelling  the  don. 

u  So,  Masetto,  thou  wilt  cudgel  him  to  the  death." 

"  To  the  very  death ;  good." 

"  Wouldst  not  be  satisfied  with  a  few  broken  bones?" 

"  Talk  not  to  me  of  broken  bones  only,  he  shall  soon 
know  of  no  bones,  marry." 

"  Thou'rt  well  armed,  friend  ?  " 

"  A  cudgel,  sir,  i'faith  such  as  shall  make  a  broad- 
chested  man  fly  before  thee  ;  feel  not  its  weight.  Oh,  oh. 
My  head,  mercy  o'  my  head.  My  back,  wouldst  twitter 


DON   GIOVANNI.  45 

my  back  to  a  jelly  ?  Marry,  now,  'twas  an  awful  thwack 
to  the  elbow ;  help,  oh,  oh.  See  Avhat  'tis  to  trust  people. 
Help ! " 

Here  the  don  finding  his  vicious  arm  quite  weak,  stole 
away  in  the  dark,  each  of  Masetto's  "  helps "  growing 
fainter  and  fainter. 

Now  little  Zerlina  had  followed  her  rustic  affar  off,  and 
when  she  heard  his  yells,  she  came  with  quite  a  run  to  his 
side.  Arrived  there,  she  saw  no  one  near  him ;  but  he 
was  still  yelling,  and  rubbing  all  of  his  back  he  could  get 
at. 

"  Masetto,  Masetto,  what  hast  thou  ?  " 

"  By  my  faith,  what  have  I  not  ?  I  am  beaten  to  a 
jelly ! " 

"  Who  hath  beaten  thee  ?  " 

"  A  man  of  a  foul  tongue  and  a  strong  arm." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"  I  know  not,  but  that  he  is  gone.  Why  art  thou  here  ? 
Oh,  gadabout,  why  art  thou  here  ?  " 

"Thou  art  jealous. again." 

"  Why  art  thou  here  ?  Now  answer  me  that,  straightly 
and  purely." 

"  Thou  shalt  see,  O  dearest,  what  my  answer  is.  For  a 
reason  that  no  money  could  purchase  nor  art  wrest  from 
me  —  that  thou  mightst  lay  thy  hand  —  thy  hand  here  on 
my  heart." 

Whereon  the  jealous  young  rustic  marched  home  ap- 
peased. 


CHAPTER  YI. 

THE  worthy  servant  and  the  worthy  master  were  once 
more  together ;  they  met  in  the  cemetery. 

The  don  was  wondering  how  his  servant  had  managed 
with  the  Donna  Elvira,  when  that  valuable  factotum  ran 
up  against  his  master. 

"  This  master  will  destroy  me." 

"  What !  dost  ruffle  with  thy  master  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  say  again  —  would  I  bad  never  known  this 
master." 


46  TALES  FROM  THE  OPEEAS. 

«  What,  rapscallion !  " 

"  I  tell  thee  I  have  rarely  escaped  a  murdering  business 
and  I  love  not  blood,  ray  master ;  no,  I  love  not  blood." 

"  'Twould  be  an  honor  to  lose  blood  for  thy  master's 
sake." 

"Faith !  I  would  sooner  keep  it  for  mine  own." 

u  Come,  I  have  rare  adventures  to  tell  thee." 

"  Good  master,  tell  them  me  at  home  ;  but,  master,  what 
devilment  bvings  thee  here  ?  " 

"  I  have  had  a  wondrous  adventure." 

"  The  poor  woman !  " 

"  I  met  her  in  the  street.  Thou  may'st  guess,  I  briskly 
went  to  her.  Take  her  by  the  hand,  do  I  ?  Aye,  yes. 
"When,  thou  dog,  whom,  thinkest  thou,  she  took  me  for? 
Thyself  was  it?  Yes,  then." 

"  For  me  !  then,  master,  that  woman  hath  abused  her- 
self in  this,  for  I  will  have  nought  to  do  with  the  sex." 

"  But,  faith !  she  soon  finds  I  am  not  Leporello,  and 
then  doth  she  yell  so  as  to  wake  the  happiest  sleepers. 
I'  faith !  I  leapt  over  the  wall,  and  here  am"  I.  Ha,  ha, 
ha!" 

"  Good*!  rare  !  my  master.    Ha,  ha,  ha ! " 

"  BEFORE  THE  DAWN  THIS  MIRTH  SHALL  DIE  ! " 

"Who  speaketh?" 

"Master  as  I  tremble  —  and  I  would  not  say  I  do  not 
tremble  ;  for  as  I  have  a  soul,  I  tremble  vastly  —  'tis  some 
spirit  from  the  other  world  who  knows  thee  better  even 
than  I  do." 

"  Peace,  fool !    Who  speaketh  ?  " 

"MAN  WEIGHED  DOWN  WITH  CRIME,  DRPART  FROM 
AMIDST  THE  HOLY  DEAD." 

"•  Did  I  not  say  'twas  a  spirit,  master  ?  A  very  gentle 
spirit,  most  assuredly." 

" '  Tis  some  one  without  the  wall,  who  would  affright  us. 
But,  prythee,  is  not  that  the  statue  of  Don  Pedro  ?  By 
my  faith,  'tis  the  statue  of  Don  Pedro !  Read  the  inscrip- 
tion." 

"I  pray  thee  spare  me.  My  eyes  are  not  diligent  in 
the  moonlight." 

"  Read,  Leporello,  read." 

u  Yes,  master,  yes.    As  I  do  spell  it,  it  says,  *  PATIENTLY 

HERE    I    AWAIT    VENGEANCE   ON   MY    DESTROYER.'" 


DON  GIOVANNI.  47 

"  Master,  good  master,  if  thou  upholdest  me  not,  I  fall." 

"  Bid  him  to  supper.     Ha  !  ha !  ha !  " 

"  Preserve  us,  ye  saints,  how  he  frowneth.  Master,  he 
hath  life.  He  will  speak.  I  would  I  were  conveniently 
away  from  here.  Master,  why  dost  thou  not  look  at  the 
statue  ? " 

"  'Tis  not  handsome.    Now,  thou  cur,  obey  me !  " 

"  Softly,  good  master.  This  is  woeful,  this  is  woeful. 
So  please  you,  gentle  statue ;  nay,  I  cannot  proceed.  I 
have  my  heart  in  my  mouth.  I  would  I  were  at  home, 
this  master  will  most  completely  destroy  me." 

"  If  thou  dost  hesitate,  I  will  warm  this  dagger  in  thy 
coward's  heart.  Now,  proceed." 

And  he  again  laughed,  still  not  turning  his  face  to  the 
statue. 

"  So  please  you,  gentle  statue,  for  I  advise  me  thou  art 
gentle,  if  thou  art  stonely  —  he  hath  turned  his  eyes  on 
us :  mercy,  he  hath  remarked  us." 

"  What,  thou  wilt  die,  recreant  ?" 

"  Master,  laugh  not.  So  thou  hast  thy  choice  of  death, 
Leporello  —  'tis  more  than  many  a  sinner;  either  by  fear 
or  by  steel  thou  fallest.  Well,  well,  if  I  love  blood,  I 
know  not  my  likings.  Good,  master,  good.  Most  gentle 
of  statues,  my  master,  and  I  —  pry thee,  mark  well,  'tis 
my  master,  and  not  I,  good  statue.  Oh  Lord !  he  hath  up 
and  downed  his  head." 

"  Thou  art  but  a  pudding,  friend  Leporello." 

"  Granted,  I  am  what  I  am,  yet  look,  master." 

"  And  wherefore  ?  " 

"  The  statue,  which  with  his  stony  head  goeth  thus,  up 
and  down,  up  and  down !" 

Then  suddenly  the  don  turned  and  looked  for  the  first 
time  at  the  statue. 

"  Tell  me,  statue,  wilt  thou  sup  with  me  ?  " 

"¥ES." 

The  don  started,  but  his  courage  was  equal  to  his 
crimes,  so  he  laughingly  bade  his  servant  come  and  pre- 
pare the  meal. 

"  Anywhere  and  anything,  my  good  master,  so  that  we 
go  from  this  place.  Methinks  I  am  half  dead." 

And  the  servant  kept  pretty  close  to  his  master's  heels 


48  TA£ES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

till  they  had  quitted  the  cemetery  and  the  awM  speaking 
statue. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  supper  was  laid,  the  don  seated.  He  had  forgot- 
ten his  guest.  He  sat  lightly  at  table,  leaning  back  in  a 
great  crimson  chair,  and  chattering  gaily  to  his  servant 
and  friend. 

"  Leporello,  I  shall  eat  a  supper  as  large  as  thy  eyes 
when  thou  art  frightened." 

"  Rare,  master,  rare." 

"  This  is  a  good  dish,  Leporello." 

"  My  faith,  but  I  would  e'en  eat  of  it  too.  I  would  he 
would  ask  me." 

"  Another  plate,  good  Leporello.  Pour  out  some  wine, 
Leporello." 

"  Verily,  if  I  do  not  eat,  I  shall  fail  in  my  strength. 
Faith,  I  will  steal,  'tis  not  much  more  on  my  conscience." 

"  Leporello,  my  friend,  whistle." 

"  He  fain  would  stay  my  eating." 

"  Marry,  how  doth  a  man  whistle,  master  ?  " 

"  Not  with  his  mouth  full." 

"  Master,  lay  it  down  that  'tis  no  fault  of  mine.  The 
cook  is  too  good ;  he  ia  a  tempter." 

Here  there  sounded  a  terrible  tramp  which  shook  the 
mansion. 

"  Preserve  us,  saints ;  what  is  that  my  master  ?  " 

Again  the  awful  sound  broke  over  the  house. 

"  'Tis  a  wondrous  uncouth  noise,  Leporello ! " 

Again  the  sound  came,  like  the  footsteps  of  an  iron-shod 
giant. 

"  Go  thou  to  the  door." 

Yet  once  more  the  footsteps  sounded.    Nearer  now. 

The  servant  ran  from  the  room  and  then  came  stagger- 
ing back,  shutting  the  folding  doors  after  him,  as  though 
for  safety. 

"  Help,  master !  help !  methinks  I  am  dying ! " 

Yet  once  more  the  sound  was  heard.  Then  a  summons 
at  the  door  of  the  room  called  the  don's  attention. 


DON   GIOVANNI.  49 

"  Leporello,  some  one  knocketh  —  open." 

Still  this  man's  courage  held  good.  Surely  he  was  as 
courageous  as  wicked. 

"  Open  the  door,  I  say." 

"  Nay,  master,  I  cannot  move." 

"  Then  must  I." 

And  he  went  to  the  door,  and  opened  it.  There  stood 
the  white  statue  of  the  murdered  Don  Pedro.  Implaca- 
ble, destructive. 

"DoN  JUAN,  THOU  DIDST  INVITE  ME  TO  THY  SUP- 
PER ;  BEHOLD  THY  GUEST!" 

Still  mighty  in  his  courage  at  least. 

"I  did  not  expect  thee.     Leporello,  fresh  dishes." 

"  Master,  master,  we  are  lost ! " 

"  MY     PRESENCE     HERE     IS    THAT   I    MAY     SPEAK    WITH 

THEE ! " 

"  Thou  art  polite." 

"  THOU       HAST      INVITED     ME     TO     THY     TABLE WILT 

THOU    BE    MY    GUEST?" 

Here  the  first  evidence  of  fear  showed  itself,  in  nervous- 
ly tearing  a  candle  from  its  socket  an.d  quickly  walking 
round  the  visitor.  As  he  ended  that  tour,  he  trembled, 
and  the  wax-light  fell  from  his  hand. 

But  he  suddenly  seemed  to  find  fresh  courage,  and  he 
flung  himself  easily  into  a  chair. 

"  WlLT    THOU    BE    MY    GUEST?" 

"  By  the  rood,  master,  say  thou  we  are  engaged."" 

"  I  will  come  with  thee ;  I  will  be  thy  guest.  I  never 
yet  feared  ;  I  never  will." 

"THEN  THOU  ACCEPTEST?" 

"  Good  master,  if  you  love  me,  say  no.  This  master  of 
mine  will  surely  destroy  me." 

"  I  say  I  will  be  thy  guest." 

"  THY  HAND  UPON  IT." 

"  Behold  it !  " 

Then  he  trembled  again,  for  as  he  touched  the  hand  tho 
chill  of  death  crept  through  him. 

"  REPENT,  AMEND  THY  LIFE,  OR  DIE  ! " 

This  was  a  threat,  so  it  renewed  all  his  fatal  courage. 

"  I  will  not  repent ;  I  will  not  amend  my  life  1  Let  me 
die,  then ! " 

3 


50  TALES  FROM  THE  OFEBAS. 

"REPENT,  I  SAT,  AMEND   THY  LITE,  OR  THOU  SHALT 

SURELY   DIE  ! " 

"  No,  no,  no ! " 

"THY  TIME  HAS  PAST — 'TIS  TOO  LATE  TO  HOPE DIE!'* 

"  What  is  this  sudden  fear  which  weighs  me  down  ? 
Lost,  lost !    I  see  the  flames  rising  to  me.    Lost,  lost ! " 

SO,  IF  WE  REPENT  NOT  WE  SHALL  SURELY  DEE. 


LA   TRAVIATA.    (VERDI.) 

(THE  LOST   ONE.) 
("LA    DAME    AUX   CAMELIAS.") 

CHAPTER  I. 

[THE  author  makes  no  apology  for  laying  before  hia 
readers  the  tale  of  this  popular  opera,  for  never  yet  was 
fester  cured  by  covering  it  up.  Whereby,  he  means  to 
say  that  no  social  wrong  will  be  remedied,  if  the  mention 
of  it  be  ignored.  But  "La  Dame  aux  Camelias"  does 
not  only  rest  upon  this  justification,  it  has  yet  another, 
"morality"  itself.  Let  any  unprejudiced  man  take  the 
younger  Alexandre  Dumas's  play,  (I  do  not  say  the  novel 
of  the  same  name,  which  is  terribly  inferior,)  and  read  it 
through,  and  I  think  he  will  admit,  if  he  has  read  thought- 
fully, that  it  is  perhaps  one  of  the  best  homilies  he  has 
ever  perused.  Let  us  now  consider  the  subject.  The 
heroine  was  a  notorious  woman,  rich,  handsome,  courted. 
Seen  going  in  her  carriage  to  the  opera,  seen  at  balls,  at 
gardens,  always  courted,  always  ffeted ;  did  she  not  excite 
envy  in  the  heart  of  many  a  pretty  girl,  leaning  on  the 
arm  of  a  not  rich  father  ?  Dead  —  her  history  before  the 
world,  on  the  stage  — '  let  this  said  pretty  girl  see  the  real 
life  of  this  woman,  and  her  envy  will  change  to  pity ; 
surely,  a  better  armor  than  envy  to  defend  her  virtue! 
Let  her  look  into  the  depths  of  that  life,  with  no  hope, 
one  brilliant  blank,  surrounded  by  selfishness,  and  ahnost 
without  a  friend,  and  it  will  be  no  worthless  lesson.  Ob- 
serve that  all  through  the  play  the  heroine  is  sad,  and 
even  in  her  poor  yearnings  after  virtue,  she  does  injury. 
And  setting  aside  this  real  character,  however,  the  play  is 
a  magnificent  exposition  of  the  heartlessness  of  sinful  life, 
which  may  be  read  with  profit  by  us  all.] 


62  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

There  were  many  present,  great  lords  and  gentlemen, 
and  several  women.  They  were  waiting  for  Marguerite's 
return. 

What  Marguerite  was,  all  knew.  The  reigning  beauty 
and  toast  of  Paris.  The  woman  for  whom  men  fought 
duels,  and  before  whom  jewellers  bowed  low.  She  had 
more  diamonds  than  the  richest  lady  at  court.  Her  car- 
riages were  perfection,  her  house  as  sumptuously  furnished 
as  a  nobleman's. 

And  yet  how  wretched  was  her  life.  Not  a  young 
mother  toiling  for  her  children's  bread,  but  she  envied ; 
and  though  she  had  thousands  of  diamonds,  she  had  not 
a  single  friend.  To  be  sure  her  maid  liked  her,  but  she 
sighed  for  one  nearer  and  dearer. 

Rich  men  feted  her  and  named  her  with  honor  over 
their  wine,  but  she  knew  how  little  their  friendship  was 
worth ;  and  so,  amidst  all  her  admirers  and  female 
companions,  she  was  as  lonely  as  a  land  bird  on  a  rock  at 
sea,  and  she  as  often  sighed  as  would  the  wind  about  that 
same  barren  rock. 

Well,  on  this  night  her  house  was  full  of  company, 
waiting  her  return  from  the  opera. 

She  soon  came  amongst  them,  radiant,  splendidly  dress- 
ed, and  apparently  as  joyous  as  any  there.  But  now  and 
then  she  coughed,  for  near  her  always  sat  an  unseen  skele- 
ton, holding  an  hour  glass. 

This  evening,  a  gentleman  named  Armand  was  intro- 
duced to  her,  who,  it  was  declared,  had  loved  her  for  a 
long  time,  but  who  was  too  timid  to  tell  her  so. 

Some  one  proposing  to  dance,  Marguerite  started  up 
and  began  waltzing,  but  soon  her  cough  came  upon  her, 
and  she  was  obliged  to  sit  down  half-fainting. 

The  youth  Armand  ran  to  her,  almost  stranger  as  he 
was.  .  -""You  suffer,"  lady !  " 

"  Oh  !  no,  no !  take  no  heed  of  me ;  leave  me  for  a 
little,  and  I  shall  soon  be  myself  again." 

They  left  the  room,  laughing  and  chattering  (so  used 
were  they  to  her  attacks) ;  but  the  youth  called  Armand 
came  gently  back,  as  this  poor  lady  looked  at  herself  in  a 
glass,  with  affright. 

M  You  are  still  pale  —  " 


LA   TK  A  VI  AT  A.  53 

u  Ah !  'tis  you,  Monsieur  Armand  !  Thank  you,  I  am 
better;  besides,  I  have  grown  accustomed  to  these  at- 
tacks." 

"  If  I  were  your  friend,  your  relation,  I  would  say  you 
are  killing  yourself,  and  would  prevent  you  from  con- 
tinuing this  wretched  life." 

"  Bah !  you  could  not  prevent  me ;  but  tell  me,  why 
are  you  yourself  so  pale  ?  " 

"  I  am  sorry,  perhaps,  as  I  look  upon  you." 

"  You  are  very  gentle ;  you  see  the  others  take  no 
notice  of  me  —  " 

"Perhaps  —  perhaps  they  do  not  love  you  as  I  do, 
lady." 

"Ah!  I  forgot,  this  grand  secret  love  of  yours." 

"You  are  laughing  at  me,  lady." 

"No,  no  —  no,  no  —  not  laughing;  I  have  heard  the 
same  declaration  so  often  that  I  do  not  laugh  at  it." 

"  Ah !  well,  make  some  return  for  it,  so  take  care  of 
your  health." 

"  Take  care  of  my  health,  my  friend !  If  I  did,  I  should 
die  at  once.  Bah  !  I  can  but  live  in  this  feverish  life. 
Truly,  good  women,  with  families  and  friends,  may  seek 
quiet  and  rest,  not  such  as  I.  The  moment  we  cease  to 
attract,  we  are  alone,  and  our  days  then  are  so  long,  so 
long.  Did  I  not  keep  my  bed  two  months?  At  the  end 
of  the  third  week  my  last  visitor  came  to  see  me  !  " 

He  again  urged  her  to  watch  over  her  herself.  She 
laughingly  told  him  his  countenance  was  too  long.  When 
he  asked  if  she  had  a  heart,  she  said  'twas  the  only  thing 
left  to  such  as  her  to  throw  away. 

He  looked  so  sad  at  her  jesting,  that  she  grew  grave 
herself,  and  she  said,  "  So,  this  passion  is  real  ?  " 

He  told  her  he  had  followed  her  from  place  to  place, 
and  when  she  lay  ill,  inquired  each  day  alter  her  health. 

"  Why  did  you  not  ask  to  see  me  ?  " 

"  What  right  had  I  to  ask  ?  " 

"  Right !  Do  men  stand  on  ceremony  with  me  ?  So, 
you  say  you  love  me  ?  Now,  let  me  be  your  friend,  and 
give  you  this  advice  —  shake  me  by  the  hand,  and  let  us 
part  good  friends,  and  for  ever." 

"  As  you  will  —  as  you  will,  good  friend,  and  for  ever." 


54  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

"  Ah  !  you  are  so  far  gone  as  that,  my  friend !  Many 
men  have  told  me  they  would  not  return,  but  have  come 
back  on  the  morrow." 

He  was  going  towards  the  door,  when  she  called  him 
back.  M  See  you,  I  shall  not  have  long  to  live,  and  'tis 
but  right  I  should  live  as  I  choose  through  my  short  span. 
But  I  tell  you,  if  I  believed  your  protestations,  they  would 
live  even  for  a  shorter  time  than  I  myself  shall.  Well, 
well,  perhaps  you  have  a  good  heart  —  who  knows?  Not 
I.  And  you  seem  sincere ;  perhaps  you  are  for  the  mo- 
ment. For  this  you  should  have  some  reward ;  take  this 
flower.  You  know  they  call  me  the  Lady  of  the  Came- 
lias,  because  I  always  carry  a  bouquet  of  those  beautiful 
flowers.  Oh !  I  give  it  you  that  you  may  return  it  to  me. 
When  ?  When  'it  is  faded." 

"  And  in  how  short  a  time  will  that  be  ? 

"  The  time  in  which  all  flowers  fade,  the  duration  of 
an  evening,  or  a  morning.  Good  bye,  good  bye." 

She  fell  into  a  reverie  as  the  youth  left  her,  but  she  was 
soon  startled  from  it  by  the  cries  from  the  other  room. 

The  next  moment  they  came  running  in,  as  he  joined 
them,  and  was  soon  as  merry  as  the  merriest  among  them. 

Yet  not  for  one  mere  moment  was  she  really  happy. 


CHAPTER  II. 

AWAY  from  the  hot,  crowded  city — away  from  the 
brilliantly  lighted  ball  room.  Away  to  a  peaceful  cottage 
before  which  rippled  a  lake,  while  round  the  trees  whis- 
pered sorrowing  peace  through  the  livelong  day. 

Living  at  peace,  but  not  happy.  No,  not  for  one  mo- 
ment happy.  Always  before  her  flitting  in  the  air,  the 
menacing  fatal  future,  always  treading  on  a  flowery  path 
resting  on  a  volcano. 

Again,  want  stepped  in.  These  ladies  always  live  up 
to  the  extent  of  their  means;  so,  if  money  suddenly  fails 
them,  they  are  quite  poor.  Not  actual  want  of  bread,  hut 
want  of  luxuries,  which  are  necessities  to  them.  Besides, 
she  had  debts  :  and  when  she  deserted  her  gay  life  in  Paris, 


LA   TRAVIATA.  55 

her  creditors,  who  knew  of  her  miserable  health,  noisily 
demanded  payment.  She  kept  all  this  from  the  man 
whom  she  had  grown  to  honestly  love.  So  first  her  car- 
riage, then  her  diamonds,  then  her  cashmeres  went  to  ap- 
pease the  raging  creditors,  and  pay  their  daily  bills.  The 
youth  was  poor,  there  was  no  income  now.  So  they  liv- 
ed, and  she  staved  off  debts  by  the  sale  of  the  presents  of 
old  admirers. 

A  Avretched  life  truly,  and  useful  only  as  a  warning. 

He  learnt  dt  last  the  sacrifices  she  was  making,  and 
grew  ashamed  of  himself.  He  had  a  small  fortune  of  his 
own,  and  at  least  he  was  honorable  enough  to  make  prep- 
arations to  throw  it  into  the  common  vortex.  He  wrote 
to  his  lawyer,  desiring  him  to  dispose  of  his  entire  prop- 
erty ;  and  a  few  days  after,  telling  her  he  had  important 
business  in  the  city,  and  bidding  her  keep  up  her  spirits, 
left  the  cottage,  and  came  to  Paris,  meaning  to  carry  his 
poor  fortune  back  to  her,  and  bid  her  place  it  in  the  com- 
mon bank. 

Gone.  Marguerite  sat  dreaming  of  her  past  life  and 
her  present  position  :  who,  she  asked  herself,  would  have 
thought  that  she,  the  gayest  of  the  gay,  should  ever  love 
such  a  tranquillity  as  she  now  enjoyed — passing  days  as 
happy  as  hers  could  be  wholly  with  one  whom,  but  three 
months  ago,  she  did  not  even  know.  She  would  sit  for 
hours  hearing  him  read,  and  wonder  when  those  hours 
had  fled.  At  times  she  doubted  whether  she  was  the 
same  woman  —  pictured  her  other  self,  still  living  the  old 
weary  life.  And  —  and  then  she  perhaps  hoped  that, 
away  there  in  the  hot  bustling  city,  they  had  forgotten 
her.  She  often  pictured  herself  gorgerously  attired,  the 
brilliant  center  of  a  ball-room  crowd,  and  then  shudder- 
ing at  the  sight,  she  turned  from  it,  and  saw  herself  seat- 
ed near  this  new  lover  in  their  boat  upon  the  lake  and 
quietly  gliding  on  the  peaceful  moonlit  waters.  She  asked 
herself,  Who  would  take  this  to  be  Marguerite  ? 

She  sat  thinking,  thinking  for  a  long  time,  and  at  last 
she  had  a  glimpse  of  such  a  bright  future  that  she  feared 
she  might  never  live  to  reach  it.  She  would  sell  all  she 
possessed,  all  that  could  remind  her  of  the  past,  and  then 
they  would  live  quietly  in  a  couple  of  little  rooms,  and 


56  TALKS  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

live  as  honest  as  they  might.  This  was  the  first  break  of 
light  in  her  gloomy  life.  Nevertheless,  a  great  storm  was 
gathering  about  her.  We  set  up  our  little  plans,  we  poor 
mortals,  and  the  wind  passes  by  and  blows  them  down  as 
easily  as  a  breath  overthrows  the  houses  of  cards,  that 
children  build  on  winters'  evenings. 

The  lawyer  had,  with  great  prudence,  warned  the  young 
man's  father  of  the  proposed  sale.  Coming  up  to  Paris, 
the  old  man  learnt  the  whole  dismal  truth.  Portions  of 
it  had  filtered  home,  indeed,  and  had  done  harm  there ; 
terrible  harm ;  but  no  idea  had  the  father  that  his  son  ac- 
tually proposed  to  ruin  himself  for  this  lost  woman. 

Duval,  the  father,  immediately  took  steps  to  discover 
his  son's  residence ;  and  upon  the  very  day  that  Armand 
left  his  quiet  country  house  for  Paris,  the  father  turned 
his  face  towards  it. 

Marguerite  was  still  dreaming —  now  hopefully  —  when 
a  servant  came  and  said  that  a  gentleman  wished  to 
speak  with  her. 

Given  permission  to  enter,  an  old  gentleman  came  in 
with  a  quick,  haughty  step,  and  suddenly  announced  him- 
self as  the  youth's  father. 

Trembling,  she  answered  that  his  son  was  not  in  the 
house. 

"  I  know  that,  but  'tis  with  you  I  woiild  speak.  I  pre- 
sume that  you  know  my  son  is  degraded,  and  is  ruining 
himself  by  remaining  with  you." 

"  Pardon  ;  I  know  that  no  one  speaks  of  me,  and  that  I 
have  not  ruined  your  son.  I  have  received  not  one  piece 
of  money  from  him." 

"  By  which  you  mean  to  say  that  my  son  is  fallen  so 
low  as  to  dissipate  with  you  what  you  have  received  from 
others." 

Pardon  me  again;  I  am  a  woman,  and  in  my  own 
house;  two  reasons  which  demand  your  courtesy,  and  — 
and  you  will  allow  me  to  —  to  leave  you." 

"Truly,  as  I  look  upon  and  hear  you,  madame,  I  can 
hardly  believe  the  scandals  I  have  heard  of  you,  you,  who 
I  have  been  told,  are  dangerous  company." 

u  Dangerous  to  myself,  perhaps." 

"  But  this  lawyer's  letter,  does  it  not  prove  my  poor 


LA   TKAVIATA.  57 

Bon's  ruin?    does  it  not  show  he  is  realizing  all  he  is 
worth?" 

She  took  the  letter  in  her  hand,  and  glanced  hastily 
over  its  contents. 

"  I  declare  to  you  I  know  nothing  of  this  act.  I  de- 
clare to  you  that  your  son  knows  I  would  refuse  to  take 
money  from  him." 

"  You  have  not  always  spoken  so." 

"  I  have  not  always  been  the  woman  that  I  am." 

The  unfortunate  creature  then  burst  into  an  incoherent 
"declaration  of  her  passion  for  the  youth,  but  the  disbe- 
lieving gentleman  merely  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

She  added  she  knew  the  oaths  of  such  as  she  were  not 
believed,  yet  she  could  swear  she  knew  nothing  of  Ar- 
niand's  collecting  his  fortune  into  his  own  hands;  but 
M.  Duval,  still  being  in  doubt,  she  nervously  took  from  a 
drawer  a  folded  paper,  and  gave  it  into  his  hands. 

It  was  a  paper  on  which  she  had  noted  down  what  each 
of  her  valuables  would  probably  realize ;  and,  as  her  visit- 
or had  come  without  warning,  he  saw  that  she  could  not 
have  prepared  it  in  anticipation  of  his  present  visit. 
Then,  believing  her  words  were  time,  he  began  to  show  a 
courtesy  to  her  which  an  hour  before  he  would  not  have 
dreamed  of  using.  Indeed,  he  expressed  himself  sorry 
that  he  had  entered  so  abruptly,  and  told  her  that  he 
thought,  perhaps,  she  had  a  good  heart  after  all.  "  And," 
he  added,  "  perhaps  so  good  that  it  will  prompt  you  to 
make  a  sacrifice  greater  than  all  you  have  yet  made."_ 

She  trembled  violently ;  but  strong  in  his  duty,  the  old 
man  went  mercilessly  on. 

Gradually  as  he  proceeded,  the  place  grew  dark  around 
her ;  gradually  all  happiness  drifted  away,  and  she  was 
left  tossing  about  on  a  sea  of  troubles  quite  alone,  with 
no  guide,  no  hope. 

lie  began  by  saying  he  had  more  than  one  child  —  he 
had  a  daughter,  whose  happiness  rested  on  her  brother's 
will.  She  might  be  married,  but  on  one  condition  —  that 
her  brother  led  an  honest  life.  As-  Marguerite  covered 
her  mouth,  that  she  might  saVe  herself  from  hearing  her 
own  cry  of  terror,  he  added,  that  away  in  the  provinces, 
they  looked  more  severely  on  sin  than  they  did  in  large 
3* 


68  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

cities ;  and  indeed  he  had  that  morning  received  a  letter 
from  the  father  of  his  daughter's  proposed  husband,  which 
peremptorily  said  that  if  Armand  did  not  at  once  break  ofl 
his  connexion  with  Marguerite,  all  intercourse  between  the 
families  must  immediately  cease.  "  See,"  he  continued, 
"  refined  as  you  may  have  become,  even  in  my  eyes,  by 
3  our  affection  for  my  son,  the  world  will  only  look  on 
your  past  life,  and  will  forever  close  its  doors  to  you." 

She  said  she  comprehended,  and  would  obey  him.  She 
must  leave  his  son  for  a  time  —  only  for  a  time  ?  And 
he  might  write  to  her  ? 

He  required  more  —  she  must  leave  his  son  altogether 
• —  for  good. 

She  said,  "  Never,  never ! "  And  with  pardonable 
selfishness  she  cried,  "  that  dying,  as  she  was,  having  but 
a  few  years  of  life  left  she  had  built  upon  these  few  years 
for  peace  and  love  near  the  man  who  had  reclaimed  her. 
To  leave  him,  it  would  kill  her." 

"  No,  no  my  child,  not  kill  you.  Let  us  be  calm  and 
do  not  let  us  exaggerate.  You  take  for  a  mortal  disease 
that  which  is  but  the  fatigue  of  a  weary  life ;  you  will  not 
die  before  that  age  when  we  are  all  prepared  to  die,  I 
hope.  I  may  seem  severe,  but  consider  that  you  have 
known  my  son  but  for  three  months,  and  I  will  believe 
that  you  love  him;  but  shall  your  love  supplant  ours? 
Shall  your  love  destroy  a  whole  future,  for  in  staying  near 
my  son,  you  do  destroy  his  future.  And  again,  are  you 
sure  this  love  will  last  ?  Are  you  sure  of  yourself?  And 
if  now,  a  little  later,  you  should  dethrone  him.  And, 
pardon  me — your  past  justifies  the  supposition.  Again, 
can  he  be  sure  of  himself?  Can  you  both,  at  your  ages, 
be  sure  of  yourselves — of  your  hearts.  Consider  this — • 
he  who  loves  you  so  now,  but  a  little  time  gone  by  poured 
out  his  wealth  of  love  on  us  at  home.  Hearts  will  change 
—  does  not  a  man  love  his  wife  more  than  he  loves  his 
parents?  Then  his  children  more  than  his  wife?  If 
nature  gives  prodigally,  she  extorts  rigorously.  I  say,  you 
may  be  deceiving  yourselves,  both  of  you.  This  is  a 
probability.  Now  will  you*  see  realities  —  certainties,  for 
you  are  listening  to  me,  are  you  not  ?  " 

She  answered  him  but  with  a  look  j  a  long,  terrible, 
miserable  look. 


LA    TRAVIATA.  59 

^  You  are  willing  to  sacrifice  all  to  my  son,  and  what 
equal  sacrifice  can  he  offer  to  you  ?  He  shall  bask  in  your 
best  years,  and  later  on,  when  he  is  sated  —  and  satiety 
will  come  —  what  shall  happen?  If  he  be  worldly,  lie 
will  spread  your  past  before  you  and  leave  you,  saying,  he 
does  but  as  others  luve  done.  And  if  he  be  an  honest 
man,  he  will  marry  you,  or  at  least  not  desert  you.  Ana 
this  marriage,  or  this  life,  not  based  on  virtue,  nor  support- 
ed by  religion,  this  life,  pardonable,  perhaps,  in  a  young 
man,  how  shall  it  be  named,  when  age  is  creeping  on  ? 
For  this  man,  for  my  son,  what  ambition  dare  he  breathe, 
what  path  is  open  to  him  ?  What  consolation  shall  this 
son  then  be  to  me  —  to  me,  who  have  watched  and  tend- 
ed him  for  twenty  years  ?  Your  love  for  each  other  —  it 
is  a  passion,  the  most  earthly  and  wholly  human,  it  is 
born  of  the  caprice  of  one,  and  the  imagination  of  the 
other.  Your  love  is  a  result,  not  a  cause.  What  shall 
remain  of  it  when  you  are  both  grown  old  and  weary  ? 
Who  assures  you  that  the  first  wrinkle  on  your  forehead 
shall  not  sweep  the  veil  from  his  eyes?  Who  assures  you 
his  love  shall  not  pass  away  with  your  youth." 

"On,  THE    TRUTH,   THE    TRUTH?" 

"  Then  yours  would  be  double  agCj  doubly  desolate, 
and  doubly  useless.  What  retrospect  would  you  have, 
what  happiness- to  look  back  upon?  Ah,  Marguerite, 
there  are  cruel  necessities  in  this  ijfe,  against  which  we 
must  fight,  if  we  would  not  be  dashed  to  death  against 
them.  You  and  my  son  have  different  roads  in  life ; 
chance  has  thrown  you  together  for  a  little  while,  but 
reason  must  separate  you.  In  the  life  you  have  entered, 
you  saw  not  the  end,  and  to  your  three  months'  happi- 
ness no  more  can  be  added.  Keep  the  remembrance  of 
this  time,  and  let  it  strengthen  you  always.  I  speak 
harshly,  but  consider  that  I  plead  where  I  might  com- 
mand. It  is  a  man  of  the  world  who  speaks  to  you,  a 
fat  hoi-  who  implores  you.  So,  Marguerite,  courage,  and 
show  you  love  my  son  truly,  by  leaving  him  to  the  care 
of  those  who  have  a  family  claim  upon  his  obedience." 

"  So  —  she  who  falls  shall  never  rise."  (She  was  speak- 
ing lowly  to  herself.)  "  Heaven  may  pardon  me,  the  world 
never.  And  truly,  yphat  right  have  I  to  a  place  in  this 


60  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

honest  family?  Hove!  What  reason!  And  what  proofs 
can  I  give  of  this  love?  Who  would  believe  them? 
What,  poor  girl  —  thou  to  speak  of  heart,  and  future  — 
these  are  new  words  to  thee.  Look  back  on  thy  past, 
what  man  would  call  thee  wife?  What  child  would  call 
thee  mother?" 

Then  turning  to  her  visitor,  she  said :  "  Nearly  all 
you  have  said  I  have  half  asked  myself —  oh,  how  often, 
but  never,  never  wholly.  Yon  are  right,  you  speak  kindly, 
and  you  are  very  merciful.  Ah  well,  I  will  obey  you,  and 
one  day  you  will  say  to  the  pure  honest  girl,  your  daugh- 
ter —  once  there  lived  a  poor  en-ing  woman  who  had  but 
one  hope  in  the  world,  and  at  the  invocation  of  thy  name, 
this  erring  woman  renounced  that  hope,  laid  her  hands 
heavily  upon  her  breast,  and  so  died ;  for  I  shall  die,  I 
shall  die.  You  say,  '  poor  creature,'  you  pity  me,  sir,  and 
methinks  you  even  weep.  Ah  well,  I  tell  you  I  will  obey 
you ;  command  me." 

"  Tell  him  that  you  love  him  no  more." 

"  He  would  not  believe  me." 

"  Leave  this  place." 

"  He  would  follow  me.  You  hesitate  ?  Sir,  lay  your 
hand  upon  my  head  as  you  would  upon  your  daughter's 
head.  And  now  I  promise  you  that  in  eight  days  he  shall 
be  with  you,  unhappy  perhaps,  but  wholly  cured,  and  I 
promise  you  that  he  shall  know  nothing  of  this  visit ;  oh, 
fear  nothing,  he  shall  HATE  me." 

Yet  a  little  and  the  father  was  leaving  the  room. 
"  And,"  she  murmured,  "  when  all  is  ended,  and  I  am  dead, 
I  pray  you  tell  him  how  I  loved,  and  proved  my  love. 
Good  bye  ;  we  shall,  perhaps,  never  see  each  other  more. 
I  pray  you  may  be  happy." 

Left  to  herself,  she  sat  down,  miserably,  and  wrote  a 
letter  which  was  to  destroy  his  love  for  her.  But  it  was 
still  unfinished  when  he  arrived.  She  hid  the  paper,  and 
trembled. 

After  a  time  she  walked  quickly  from  the  room,  saying 
she  should  soon  return. 

And  she  was  gone  to  return  no  more. 


LA   TRAYIATA.  61 

He  waited  as  the  night  came  on.  Then,  growing  unac- 
countably frightened,  called  for  lights.  No  one  answered. 
Running  from  the  room  to  the  grounds,  he  shrieked  out 
her  name.  No  answer.  He  ran  over  the  house  ;  it  was 
deserted.  She  and  her  servants  had  left  the  place,  and  it 
was  silent  and  lifeless. 

And  still,  hoping  against  hope,  he  wandered  about  the 
house  in  search  of  his  lost  love. 


CHAPTER  III. 

BACK  into  the  dreadful  life  she  had  left.  Away  from 
the  placid  lake  and  whispering  trees.  Again  feasting,  and 
heartlessness,  and  golden  misery.  Armand  soon  learnt 
that  she  had  abandoned  him  for  another.  He  cursed  her 
very  name  ;  but  she  was  wrong  in  thinking  he  would  hate 
her ;  wrong  in  thinking  he  would  hasten  to  the  home 
where  he  was  born.  He  came  to  Paris,  and  waited  angri- 
ly for  revenge. 

Marguerite's  new  protector  was  a  man  immensely  fond 
of  pleasure,  and  in  spite  of  her  protestations,  would  drag 
her  from  theati-e  to  ball  room,  and  from  house  to  house. 

She  suffered  horribly.  Her  old  complaint  burst  out 
anew,  her  cough  came  back  again,  and  she  was  once  more 
a  poor  ailing  creature,  whose  great  beauty  grew  each  day 
less  and  less. 

One  night,  a  month  after  her  flight,  the  poor  woman, 
quite  against  her  will,  was  present  at  a  ball  given  by  one 
of  the  reigning  belles  of  wicked  Paris. 

Entering  the  room,  she  shrank  back,  for  there  sat  Ar- 
mand. He  had  not  visited  many  of  these  gay  places 
since  she  had  left  him,  and  his  entrance  here  had  created 
some  surprise  amongst  the  guests.  Many  looked  to  see 
how  the  old  lovers  would  meet.  As  she  entered  he  looked 
up  from  a  card  table.  She  smiled  timidly ;  he  bowed  to 
her  coldly.  She  told  her  companion  that  she  would  rath- 
er not  remain  ;  but  he  also,  marking  her  old  lover,  said  he 
would  not  be  laughed  at,  and  insisted  upon  her  keeping 
in  the  room.  She  obeyed,  and  sat  timidly  down. 


62  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

Armand  played  high,  and  some  one  remarking  it,  he 
said  he  was  trying  the  force  of  the  old  proverb,  "Unlucky 
in  love,  lucky  at  cards."  "  Oh,  I  mean  to  make  a  fortune 
to-night, -then  spend  it  in  the  country.  And  not  alone; 
with  some  one  who  has  lived  in  the  country  as  well  as  I 
have  —  perhaps  when  I  am  rich." 

Marguerite's  companion  hearing  the  player's  menace, 
went  up  to  the  table,  and  commenced  playing.  lie  lost, 
and  every  time  he  lost,  the  other  gained. 

Soon  afterwards,  supper  was  called,  and  all  the  compa- 
ny made  for  the  table  where  it  was  laid,  all  except  Mar- 
guerite, who  remained  seated,  depressed  both  in  body  and 
mind. 

She  had  scarcely  been  alone  a  minute,  before  Armand 
came  running  to  her.  He  loved  her  as  fervently  as  ever. 
As  she  perceived  his  ardor,  she  felt  almost  tempted  to  tell 
him  the  whole  truth  of  her  flight,  but  the  promise  to  his 
father  stayed  her.  At  last,  he  prayed  her  to  fly  with  him 
again,  saying  he  would  forget  the  past.  But  no,  she  re- 
fused. Again  and  again  he  implored,  yet  she  was  obdu- 
rate. 

Then  he  grew  enraged  —  mad ;  he  rushed  to  the  supper 
room,  screamed  to  them  to  see  him  do  an  act  of  justice  ; 
and,  as  they  came  streaming  out  and  round  about,  he  took 
from  his  pocket  all  his  winnings,  and  cried,  "You  seo 
that  woman  !  well,  do  you  know  what  she  has  done  for 
me  ?  She  sold  her  horses  and  her  carriages,  and  her  dia- 
monds, that  she  might  live  with  me — so  much  did  she 
love  me.  Was  not  that  noble  ?  And  I  —  what  did  I  do? 
I,  a  mean  wretch,  accepted  the  sacrifice,  and  gave  no  pay- 
ment. But  'tis  not  too  late,  and  I  would  repair  my  shame. 
See  you  all,  I  pay  this  Marguerite,  and  I  owe  her  naught." 

As  he  spoke,  he  flung  a  heap  of  bank  notes  and  gold  at 
the  feet  of  this  miserable  woman,  who  fell  heavily  back 
upon  a  sofa,  mercifully  deprived  of  sense.  Down  they 
rained  upon  her,  the  notes  and  gold ;  down  they  fell 
crushing  her  as  surely  as  though  they  had  been  jagged 
rocks. 


LA    TRAVIATA.  63 


CHAPTER  IV. 

CONQUERED,  weak,  and  dying,  she  lay  upon  her  bed  in 
the  joyous  carnival  time.  While  all  Paris  was  gay  and 
merry,  she  was  drawing  her  last  breath. 

Misery,  degradation,  desertion,  and  consumption,  had 
done  their  worst ;  they  had  destroyed  her,  but  not  wholly 
killed  her  beauty.  Far,  far  from  the  brilliant  creature  who 
had  ruled  over  so  many  but  a  short  time  before,  she  was 
yet  beautiful  as  she  lay  upon  her  bed,  awake,  and  heavily 
breathing  through  the  dark  hours  of  the  night. 

Now  and  then  she  would  fall  into  a  feverish  sleep,  but 
only  to  start  back  into  wakefulness,  as  a  bevy  of  masques 
returned  home  from  their  revels,  singing  as  they  went. 
What  a  contrast!  the  poor  dying  creature  lying  there,  and 
below  in  the  streets  the  heedless  revellers,  shouting  their 
noisy  songs,  and  dancing  madly  through  the  otherwise  de- 
serted streets. 

She  knew  that  she  had  not  many  days  to  live,  and  yet 
she  had  one  glorious  hope,  possessing  which  she  looked 
back  upon  her  blank  despair  with  horror. 

It  was  three  months  since  the  catastrophe  at  the  ball. 
Her  protector  and  Armand  had  met  and  fought,  and  the 
former  been  slightly  wounded.  This  was  the  joy:  he 
knew  the  whole  truth  or  would  know  it.  His  father  had 
promised  that  when  she  died  he. should  know  all.  But 
alas !  after  the  duel  he  had  left  Paris,  and  no  one  knew 
where  he  had  hidden  himself.  To  think  that  he  might 
know  that  her  very  love  had  bidden  her  leave  him,  and 
that  he  himself  was  now  the  only  cause  of  his  ignorance. 
Yc't  there  was  plenty  of  time,  plenty  of  time ;  and  before 
she  died  she  should  surely  see  him. 

M  my  of  her  companions  and  friends  had  forgotten  her 
by  this  time.  But  when  her  waiting  woman  came  in  that 
morning,  she  had  half-a-dozen  new  year's  presents  for  the 
patient ;  —  so  she  was  not  forgotten  altogether. 

The  faithful  doctor  soon  came,  he  who  had  so  patiently 
tended  her,  without  fee  or  reward. 

Asking  her  how  she  was,  she  replied  that  she  was  bet- 


64  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

ter  and  worse,  worse  in  body,  better  in  mind.  The  night 
before,  she  said,  she  felt  so  surely  that  she  was  dying  that 
she  sent  for  a  priest.  She  welcomed  him  heartily,  she  add- 
ed smiling.  How  beautiful  was  religion,  the  minister 
came  to  talk  with  her  for  an  hour,  and  then  leaving,  he 
carried  away  with  him  despair,  terror,  remorse.  Then  she 
said  she  fell  asleep  quite  peacefully.  The  doctor  promis- 
ed her  health  on  the  very  first  day  in  spring. 

Smiling  again,  she  said  it  was  his  duty  to  say  so ;  an 
untruth  surely  was  not  a  sin  in  a  doctor,  for  he  must 
speak  one  for  every  patient  he  saw. 

For  indeed  she  was  much  worse  that  day. 

Moreover,  want  was  tormenting  her  last  hours.  Her 
creditors  were  again  exacting,  and  almost  every  hour 
brought  one  of  them  to  the  door.  Indeed,  the  new  year's 
presents,  jewels  for  the  most  part,  were  ordered  to  be  sold 
almost  as  soon  as  seen. 

Left  alone,  she  took  from  the  bosom  of  her  dress  a 
letter.  It  was  one  written  by  M.  Duval,  saying  that  his 
son  would  soon  be  with  her  to  entreat  his  pardon,  and  the 
writer's  own.  It  bade  her  be  careful  of  her  health,  and 
said  that  her  courage  promised  a  happy  future.  For  six 
weeks  had  she  read  this  letter  daily  —  for  six  weeks  of 
days  she  had  watched  for  his  return,  and  still  she  watched 
—  sickening  with  despair  one  moment  only  to  glow  with 
hope  the  next.  If  she  could  only  have  a  letter  from  him, 
if  she  could  only  live  till  the  spring  —  why  then  ?  She 
got  slowly  up  from  the  soft  chair  to  which  she  had  been 
led,  and  eagerly  searched  her  wan  face  in  a  looking-glass. 
"  How  changed  I  arn !  yet  the  doctor  has  promised  to  cure 
me.  Oh !  I  must  have  patience.  And  yet,  did  he  not 
tell  my  waiting  woman,  Nannie,  did  I  not  hear  him  say  I 
was  much  worse  ?  Yet,  only  much  worse  /  there  is,  then, 
still  some  hope,  still  a  few  short  months  to  live,  and  if  in 
that  time  he  comes  to  me,  I  shall  be  saved  —  I  SHALL  BE 
SAVED.  This  is  now  new  year's  day,  then  surely  I  may 
hope.  And  —  and,  besides,  if  I  were  really  in  danger, 
they  all  of  them,  the  doctor,  Nannie,  my  old  frit-mis, 
coald  not  come  laughing  to  my  bedside  as  they  do,  nor 
would  the  doctor  leave  me."  Here  she  slowly  wandered 
to  the  window  and  looked  from  it.  "  Ah !  what  joy  is 


LA   TRAVIATA.  65 

there  not  in  a  family,  how  beautiful  now  is  that  child  play- 
ing with  his  toys  —  ah,  I  could  die  loving  that  little  one." 

Suddenly  her  maid  ran  quickly  into  the  room,  her  face 
full  of  joy.  "  Madame  !  madame  ! " 

"Well!  well!" 

"  You  are  strong  to-day  —  you  feel  quite  strong." 

"Yes,  but  why?" 

"  Pray  be  calm." 

"  Yes,  yes,  but  why  ?  " 

"  I  would  prepare  you  —  a  sudden  joy  is  so  heavy  to 
bear." 

"  A  joy  ?  A  joy  for  me  ?  You  have  seen  him  —  he  — 
he  is  coming! " 

With  weak,  rapid  steps  she  staggered  to  the  door,  and 
called  to  him.  Then  he  stood  before  her,  pale  and  tremb- 
ling. She  fell  upon  his  neck,  and  clung  to  him  as  though 
he  were  life.  "  No,  no,  it  is  not  thee ;  not  so  much 
clemency  can  be  shown  to  such  as  I  am." 

"  'Tis  I,  Marguerite,  and  so  repentant,  and  ashamed,  so 
guilty,  that  I  dared  not  to.  pass  the  threshold.  I  was 
afraid  to  enter ;  so  I  waited  till  Nannie  came  to  the  door, 
and  then  I  spoke  to-  her.  My  father  has  told  me  all.  I 
fled,  no  one  knew  where,  after  that  night ;  travelled  night 
and  day,  without  sleep,  without  hope,  ever  pursued  by 
vague  presentiments.  If  I  had  not  found  thee,  I  must 
have  died,  for  should  I  not  have  been  the  cause  of  thy 
death  ?  Tell  me  that  you  pardon  me,  that  you  forgive, 
too,  my  poor  father." 

"  I  pardon  ?  I,  the  guilty  one  ?  And  I  did  what  I 
thought  the  best  for  thy  happiness,  even  at  the  expense 
of  my  own.  But  now,  thy  father  will  not  separate  us 
again.  Ah !  look  at  me,  I  am  not  the  creature  that  you 
left,  yet  —  yet,  I  am  still  young,  and  I  shall  grow  beauti- 
ful now  that  I  am  happy.  We  will  forget  the  past  and 
commence  a  new  life  from  this  good  day." 

"  Never  to  leave  thee  again  —  never.  We  will  quit  the 
-house.  Quit  Paris  for  ever.  We  will  be  happy,  for  our 
future  is  our  own." 

"  Speak  on,  speak  on,  my  soul  burns  at  thy  words,  and 
each  moment  I  gather  new  strength.  I  said  this  morning 
thou  couldst  save  me,  and  I  was  right." 


66  TALES  FBOM  THE  OPEUAS. 

Then  she  said  they  must  go  together,  and  kneel  in  the 
nearest  church,  and  pray,  and  be  grateful;  and  as  she 
spoke  she  staggered  to  hor  feet  again,  and  called  to  her 
maid  to  bring  her  a  shawl  and  bonnet. 

As  the  girl  came  forward,  the  youth  had  a  good  word 
for  her. 

MOh,"  continued  the  suffering  woman,  "Nannie  and 
I  talked  of  thee  every  day,  and  she  always  said  thou 
wouldst  come  back,  and  she  was  right.  So  thou  hast  seen 
beautiful  countries  since  that  time.  Ah!  well,  now  we 
will  see  them  together." 

"Marguerite,  thou  hast  turned  quite  pale,  and  thou  art 
so  cold  f " 

"  Oh,  nothing,  'tis  nothing,"  she  said,  hurriedly,  and 
nervously  drawing  a  thick  shawl  about  her.  "  The  coming 
in  of  so  much  joy;  why  joy  sometimes  is  as  hard  to  bear 
as  grief  itself." 

And  then  she  dropped  exhausted  upon  the  nearest 
chair. 

"Dear  Marguerite!  speak,. speak  to  me." 

"  Bo  not  afraid,  you  know  I  was  always  subject  to  these 
sudden  fits  of  weakness,  but  they  are  gone  almost  direct- 
ly. Watch  me,  thou  seest  I  can  smile  already.  And 
again  I  feel  strong.  'Twas  only  the  hope  of  life  thrilling 
through  me." 

Taking  her  thin  hand  he  said,  "  how  thou  tremblest." 

"  No,  no.     I  will  go  out.     Nannie,  give  me  a  bonnet." 

He  drew  away  from  her  for  a  moment  in  horror. 

She  again  strove  to  stand,  but  could  not.  Then  falling 
upon  a  seat,  she  tore  off  the  shawl  and  cried  "I  am 
dying,  I  am  dying." 

As  he  flung  himself  down  by  her  side,  the  serving  girl 
ran  from  the  room,  and  sped  away,  crying  out  that  she 
would  go  for  the  doctor. 

"  Yes,  yes,  bring  him  to  me,  tell  him  Armand  is  here 
—  that  I  want  to  live — that  I  WILL  live.  Why,  if  thy 
return  doth  not  save  me,  nothing  can ! " 

"  Oh,  thou  wilt  live,  dearest." 

Sit  down  beside  me,  close  to  me,  my  husband,  and  hear 
me."  She  spoke  very  quietly,  very  faintly.  "  But  a  mo- 
ment since  I  raged  against  death.  I  am  sorry  for  my 


LA   TBAVIATA.  67 

fault.  It  is  right  that  I  should  die,  and  I  love  death  now 
that  it  has  spared  me  to  see  thee  once  again.  Ah,  if  my 
death  had  not  been  sure,  thy  father  would  never  have 
bade  thee  come  to  me." 

"Marguerite,  speak  not  of  death.  I  shall  go  mad. 
Say  no  more  that  you  will  die,  say  rather  that  you  desire 
to  live." 

"  Ah,  what  is  my  will  ?  If  I  were  a  good  girl,  if  I 
were  honest,  perhaps  I  should  weep  to  leave  the  world, 
and  leave  you  behind,  for  then  the  future  would  be  full 
of  hope ;  my  past  life  would  then  let  me  hope.  Dying, 
thou  wilt  hold  me  in  gentle  remembrance ;  living,  there 
would  ever  be  a  gloom  upon  our  love.  Believe  me,  all  is 
for  the  best ;  what  is  done,  is  well  done." 

In  an  agony  of  grief  he  clung  about  her. 

"  What  then  it  is  I  who  must  give  thee  courage ! 
Gently  obey  me.  Open  that  little  drawer,  you  will  find 
there  my  portrait,  when  they  told  me  I  was  pretty.  Keep 
it,  for  it  will  help  thee  to  remember  me.  But  if  some 
day,  there  cometh  a  kindly  honest  girl  who  will  love  and 
marry  thee,  as  it  should  be,  as  I  hope  it  may  be,  and  if 
she  should  find  this  portrait,  tell  her  it  is  the  likeness  of 
a  friend  who,  if  she  may  reach  the  obscurest  corner  of 
heaven,  will  pray  for  her  happiness.  If  though  she  is 
jealous  of  the  past  (as  we  women  are  sometimes),  if  she 
demands  from  you  this  poor  picture,  place  it  in  her  hand 
without  fear  or  remorse  —  it  Avill  be  but  justice.  And 
now  I  pardon  thee  the  act,  for  a  loving  woman  suffers  so 
much  when  her  love  is  not  returned.  Thou  hast  heard 
me.  Dying  —  dying  —  yet  happy.  Tell  them  to  talk 
about  me  sometimes  —  and  they  will  —  will  they  not? 
and  —  and  —  give  me  your  hand.  Oh,  it  is  not  hai'd  to 
die  when  one  dies  happily.  But  what  is  this?" 

She  stood  up  for  a  moment,  smiling  gloriously ;  then 
she  continued,  "  Why  I  suffer  no  more.  All  pain  has 
left  me.  Has  a  new  life  been  breathed  into  me  ?  I  feel 
as  I  have  never  felt.  Am  I  to  live  —  am  I  to  live  ?  " 

Then  she  gently  sat  down  again,  leant  back  in  her  chair, 
and,  sighing  softly,  became  silent. 

"She  is  sleeping,"  said  Armand  to  himself  his  hand 
still  pressed  in  hers.  "Marguerite,  Marguerite." 

Still  her  hand  was  clasped  in  his. 


68  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

"  Marguerite  —  Marguerite ! "    Still  she  slept. 

He  uttered  a  loud  cry,  and  started  to  his  feet.  But  his 
hand  still  remained  clasped  in  hers. 

"  Marguerite,"  he  again  cried,  and  with  a  terrible  ener- 
gy, he  tore  his  hand  from  her  grasp.  Her  own  fell 
placidly  to  her  side. 

He  flung  himself  down  at  her  feet. 

"  Dead  —  dead  —  dead." 


DON    PASQTJALE.    (DONIZETTI.) 


CHAPTER  I. 

DON"  PASQUALE  was  an  old  bachelor,  and  as  wealthy  as 
he  was  old.  He  was  saving,  credulous,  and  obstinate. 
But  for  all  that  Don  Pasquale  was  the  best-hearted  of 
dons. 

Now  he  had  a  nephew,  whose  name  was  Ernesto.  This 
youth  had  been  continually  either  falling  from  the  heights 
of  his  uncle's  approbation,  or  to  the  depths  of  his  dis- 

Eleasure,  only  to  be  raised  again  the  next  day.  But  at 
ist  Ernesto  forfeited  the  don's  approbation  altogether,  for 
he  fell  in  love  with  Norina,  of  whom  the  don  had  no  good 
opinion,  though,  in  truth,  he  had  never  seen  her.  In  the 
first  place,  according  to  the  don,  she  was  flighty ;  in  the 
second  place,  she  was  impatient ;  in  the  third  place,  she 
was  fiery ;  and  the  old  bachelor  had  a  horror  of  fiery  wo- 
men. 

So  when  his  nephew  showed  a  disposition  to  speak  in 
praise  of  his  lady  love,  the  don  grew  so  obstinate  and  ill- 
tempered,  that  his  friend,  Doctor  Malatesta,  no  longer  re- 
cognized him  as  the  old  bachelor  companion :  Doctor 
Malatesta  had  known  the  bachelor  don  for  more  years  than 
he  would  like  to  name,  and  known  the  nephew  as  long  as 
the  don  himself,  so  he  was  like  one  of  the  family.  It  may 
also  be  stated  that  the  doctor  was  a  practical  joker. 

There  is  but  a  fourth  party  to  this  little  tale  —  though 
she  cannot  be  called  one  of  the  family  —  we  mean  Norina, 
a  young  widow,  a  delightful  widow,  perhaps  impatient,  as 
the  don  had  declared,  nay,  perhaps  even  fiery,  but  for  all 
that  she  was  affectionate  and  sincere,  and  amazingly  fond 
of  Ernesto. 

Well,  it  may  be  said  at  once,  that  the  nephew  persisted 
in  adoring  Norina ;  the  old  don  then  marked  out  a  line 
of  conduct,  the  effect  of  which  was,  that  he  sat  in  his 
breakfast  parlor  one  fine  morning,  impatiently  waiting  for 


^70  TALKS   FROM   THE   OPKKAS. 

• 

his  friend  Malatesta,  and  snappishly  looking  at  the  clock. 
Being  old  and  a  leetle  deaf,  he  took  the  first  sound  he 
heard  to  be  the  doctor's  step  —  'twas  only  the  wind ;  then 
he  thought  of  the  "  pill "  he  had  prepared  for  his  obsti- 
nate nephew,  moreover  his  insulting  nephew,  for  that  re- 
lation had  gone  so  far  as  to  indecently  call  him  a  donkey 
—  call  him,  Don  Pasquale  —  a  donkey. 

In  the  midst  of  his  silent  anger,  the  doctor  arrived,  a 
pleasant  middle-aged  gentleman,  with  a  jolly,  pleasant 
face. 

«  Well,  well,"  said  the  don. 

"Well,  indeed,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  What,  you  have  found  —  " 

«  Yes,  indeed." 

The  don  embraced  his  friend  in  the  Italian  manner,  and 
thereupon  did  not  see  the  laugh  that  spread  over  the  doc- 
tor's merry  countenance. 

"  Now  for  her  portrait,"  said  the  don ;  "  I  am  all  atten- 
tion." 

"  She  is  as  beautiful  as  an  angel  who  has  missed  her 
way,  and  wandered  to  earth ;  she  is  as  fresh  as  a  newly- 
blown  lily,  and  her  eyes  are  like  darts  that  pierce  the  very 
heart  —  and  whether  you  shall  most  admire  the  blackness 
of  her  hair,  or  the  beauty  of  her  smile,  who  shall  say?  " 

"  Blessed  is  the  man  who  is  blessed  with  such  a  wife." 

"  And  her  modesty,  and  her  graoe,  and  her  charity! " 

"  Yes,  yes,  doctor ;  and  her  family !  ** 

"  Such  a  family ! " 

"  And  her  name  —  " 

"  Her  name  is  Malatesta." 

"  What !  is  she  related  to  you  ?  " 

"  A  little  ;  she's  my  sister." 

"  Oh,  dear  brother!  when  shall  I  see  her?  " 

"  To-morrow." 

"  'Tis  an  age  !  this  very  instant ! " 

"  Ah ! "  said  the  doctor,  "  I  can  deny  naught  to  a 
friend." 

Again  the  don  embraced  the  doctor. 

"  This  second  embrace  was  not  so  long  as  the  first.  The 
don  ejected  his  friend  from  his  arms,  and  eaid  rapidly, 
"Go,  go, go." 


DON   PA8QUALE.  71 

Left  to  himself,  it  may  be  remarked  the  old  don  danced 
with  glee.  If  you  have  not  seen  a  gingerly  old  gentle- 
man in  such  a  situation,  you  have  lost  a  sight.  He  was 
in  the  midst  of  this  practice,  when  his  nephew,  Ernesto 
came  running  into  the  room. 

"  Good  morning,  nephew !    You  may  sit  down." 

"  Surely,  surely,  uncle ! " 

«  Don't  be  afraid." 

"  Surely,  surely,  uncle  ! " 

"  I  am  not  going  to  scold  you.  Tell  me,  did  I  not,  pre- 
cisely two  months  ago,  offer  you  the  hand  of  a  lady,  as 
rich  as  beautiful,  and  as  noble  as  both  ?  " 

u  Surely,  surely,  uncle !  " 

"And  did  I  not  promise  to  give  you  all  I  had?" 

M  At  your  death  —  surely,  surely." 

"  And  did  I  not  say  if  you  refused,  I  would  marry  her 
myself?  " 

"  That  is,  marry  somebody  else  —  surely,  surely." 

"  Well,  you  did  refuse ;  now,  I  offer  you  this  young  lady 
again  —  will  you  marry  her  ?  " 

"  Surely,  surely  —  NO." 

«  No ! " 

«  No." 

"  You  homeless  fellow,  you ! " 

"  You  turn  me  out,  uncle  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do,  to  make  room  for  your  aunt." 

"You  marry?" 

"  Surely,  surely,  nephew ;  I  myself,  the  Don  Pasquale, 
in  very  flesh  and  bone." 

"  You  take  my  breath  away  ! " 

"  Yes,  I  myself,  the  Don  Pasquale,  sane  and  sound,  I 
marry." 

"  'Tis  a  comedy ! " 

"  Is  it  ?    Till  to-morrow ;  wait  till  to-morrow." 

"Sir,  I  will." 

"  Yes,  but  not  here,  in  Don  Pasquale's  house." 

The  youth  here  grew  very  disconsolate,  for  indeed  he 
was  thinking  if  his  uncle  cut  him  off  with  that  proverbial 
shilling,  he  would  have  to  resign  the  promised  hand  of 
somebody  whom  he  had  no  objection  to  marry  whatever. 

Meanwhile  the  don  was  watching  him  attentively,  and 
half  hoping  that  the  youth  would  consent. 


72  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

Said  Ernesto,  after  the  dismal  pause,  "Uncle,  just  tv/o 
words." 

"  Three  —  young  man." 

"  Don't  be  rash  —  consult  Doctor  Malatesta." 
.     "Sir  —  I  have  consulted  him." 

"  And  what  is  his  advice  ?  " 

"  He  is  as  willing  for  the  match  as  I.  Oh,  you  may 
look  astonished  —  as  willing  for  the  match  as  I.  In  fact, 
nephew  —  between  ourselves  —  SHE  is  HIS  SISTER!" 

"The  doctor's?" 

"  Well,  he  said  so." 

Poor  Ernesto.  The  doctor  had  always  been  his  best 
friend,  and  when  the  crashing  announcement  came,  he 
thought  Doctor  Malatesta  would  be  his  man-at-arrns,  and 
now  it  seemed  he  had  gone  over  to  the  enemy.  And  he 
looked  even  more  dismal  than  before,  for  now,  not  only 
had  his  old  love  drifted  away  from  him,  but  his  old  friend 
too. 

The  don  saw  these  dismal  marks  of  misery  with  dolo- 
rous satisfaction  —  the  satisfaction  arose  out  of  his  pride 
—  and  the  dolor  was  buried  in  his  heart.  But  for  all  that 
he  showed  his  nephew  to  the  door,  though  it  should  be 
said  to  his  honor,  that  he  did  not  dance  when  he  was 
alone  again. 


CHAPTER  II. 

the  young  widow  who  had  caused  all  that 
commotion  at  the  don's  domicile,  was  not  so  rich  as  she 
was  beautiful.  If  she  had  been,  she  would  have  been 
besieged  with  lovers ;  but  she  was  rich  enough  to  have  a 
home  of  her  own,  and  she  was  sitting  in  it  reading  on 
that  very  morning  when  the  don  directed  his  young 
nephew's  shoes  to  the  street  door. 

The  doctor  had  told  her  he  should  want  her  for  a  cer- 
tain plot,  though  he  had  carefully  only  raised  her  curiosity 
without  confiding  particulars,  and  she  had  taken  up  the 
book  to  divert  herself  till  the  doctor,  by  appointment, 
should  be  there. 


DON    PASQUALE.  73 

The  book  was  a  romantic  old  love  tale,  and  she  had  got 
as  far  as,  "  Her  looks  were  so  heavenly,  so  delightful,  that 
the  Knight  Richard,  enraptured,  fell  at  her  feet,  and  vow- 
ed eternal  fidelity,"  when  she  flung  it  down,  exclaiming 
to  herself,  that-  she  did  not  want  the  heavenly  lady's 
instructions  in  the  art  of  love-making.  She  well  knew 
the  power  of  glance  in  time  and  place,  the  effect  of  a 
sjnile,  a  tear,  silence,  a  word ;  in  fact,  this  vivacious  little 
widow  believed  herself  a  coquette,  though  in  reality,  there 
was  not  a  more  earnest  little  woman  in  the  whole  world, 
when  it  was  a  question  of  her  love  for  Ernesto.  She  did 
love  him.  She  would  plague  him  by  flirting  with  third 
parties ;  but  she  could  always  turn  his  anger  into  smiles. 
Well,  she  was  thinking  of  Ernesto,  when  a  letter  came  to 
her  in  the  handwriting  of  that  youth.  Ah !  how  all  the 
bright  looks  went  out  of  the  face  a  moment  after,  and  the 
letter  was  opened.  She  read  it  through,  and  was  reading 
it  again,  when  the  doctor,  without  waiting  for  any  ceremo- 
ny, ran  in  and  up  to  the  little  lady  —  for  she  was  little. 

"  Good  news,"  he  cried,  "  strategem  — " 

"  Not  a  word  of  it,  doctor,"  and  she  thrust  the  letter 
into  his  hands. 

He  read :  " '  My  dear  Norina,  I  write  to  you  with  a 
broken  heart.'  (The  poor  young  man)  jDon  Pasquale, 
advised  by  that  scoundrel '  (that's  me,  beyond  a  doubt, 
poor  young  man),  'by  that  false,  double-faced  Doctor 
Malatesta '  (as  I  thought)  'will  marry  a  sister  of  his,  and. 
he  turns  me  out  of  doors.  And  so  love  tells  me  I  must 
run  away  from  you.  Therefore,  good  bye,  good  bye. 
May  you  be  happy,  'tis  the  dearest  wish  of  Ernesto.' 
How  glad  you  must  be  to  receive  this  letter." 

"Glad,  doctor!"  she  exclaimed,  in  tears. 

"  Why,  next  time  you  see  him,  he'll  be  more  loving 
than  ever." 

"  When  will  that  be  — perhaps,  perhaps,  he's  gone!" 

"And  perhaps  not.     He  shall  know  our  plans  at  once." 

"  Our  plans,  what  are  they  ?  " 

"You  know  to  punish  his  nephew,  the  don  would 
marry ! " 

"  Is  that  our  plan,  doctor  ?  " 

"  Well,  well,  seeing  him  determined,  I  seconded  him  !n 
4 


74  TALKS  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

«  Oh  !  " 

"  To  serve  you,  and  Ernesto  —  I  have  spoken  to  the 
don  of  my  sister.  You  shall  pass  for  her.  You  appear 
before  him,  he  falls  in  love  with  you ! " 

«  Well ! " 

"  Then  he  marries  you ! " 

«  Oh ! " 

"  Don't  scream.  He  marries  you,  and  yet  he  does  not. 
My  nephew  Charles  shall  personate  a  notary.  Then, 
married,  I  leave  the  rest  to  you,  'tis  your  business  to  drive 
him  mad,  as  of  course  you  know.  Then,  then  we  will  do 
with  him  as  we  please." 

"  Ah,  ah,  ah,  ah ! "  (no  more  tears  now,  unless  from 
laughter,)  "ah,  ah,  ah,  ah,  ah,  oh!  Oh.  how  I'll  teaze  him 
—  how  I'll  worry  him — how  he  shall  repent — ah,  ah,  ah." 

"  Oh  but  not  at  first ! " 

"  Oh,  dear  no !  shall  I  be  merry,  or  downcast,  or 
reserved  ?  " 

"  No,  not  at  all." 

"  Shall  I  weep,  or  cry  ?  " 

"  No,  you  must  appear  a  simple  country  lass." 

"  And  I  will.  See  how  do  I  manage  ?  oh,  thank  you, 
thank  ^y«u  —  no,  that  is  —  but  I'd  rather  not  —  you're 
very,  very  hurnble  servant,  sir.  Ah,  ah,  ah ! " 

"  Brava,  that  will  do." 

M  And  I  must  hold  my  head  down,  like  a  goose ! " 

"  And  your  lips  pursed  up." 

"  Like  an  old  maid.  Oh !  sir,  I  am  ashamed.  I'd  rather 
not  —  your  humble  servant,  sir !  Ah,  ah,  ah !  " 

"  Come,  let  us  go." 

"  Yes,  oh,  I  shall  die  of  laughing  before  we  get  there. 
Sir,  your  most  obedient  —  ah,  ah,  ah,  ah,  ah ! " 


CHAPTER  III. 

DON  PASQUALE  got  himself  up  in  such  style  for  the 
reception  of  his  bride  that  his  own  servants  did  not  know 
him.  In  fact  he  hardly  knew  himself,  and  felt  rather 
killer.  But  lie  was  not  comfortable,  and  indeed  as  he 


DON   PASQtJALE.  75 

» 

gave  his  servants  orders  to  admit  none  but  the  doctor  and 
the  person  who  might  be  with  him,  he  blushed  rather  red, 
which  last  word  is  superfluous,  for  no  don  in  the  world 
could  blush  blue !  Well,  the  servants  departed ;  he 
danced  again,  and  then  growing  tired  he  was  fatigued 
with  waiting. 

Soon  they  arrived.  The  doctor  pushing  his  "sister" 
forward  with  angry  jerks.  As  for  her,  with  her  veil  down 
over  her  meek  face,  she  was  uttering  cries  of  fright  and 
mild  opposition. 

"  Courage,  courage,  sister." 

"Oh,  dear  me  —  that  is  —  I  can't  —  please,  brother,  do 
not  leave  me." 

Here  the  don  danced  up  to  the  young  lady,  adjusting 
his  necktie  gracefully  round  his  neck. 

"  Something  like  a  giggle  was  heard,  but  the  next 
moment  a  voice  from  under  the  veil  said, 

"Oh,  dear,  dear,  dear,  I  can't  —  that  is,  I'd  rather  go 
away.  Please,  brother,  don't  —  don't  leave  me." 

"JDo  not  be  afraid." 

"  Oh,  I'd  rather  stand  behind."     And  behind  she  went. 

The  doctor  went  up  to  the  don  apologetically,  saying 
that  the  poor  girl  was  but  just  fresh  from  the  convent. 
In  fact,  he  said,  she  was  naturally  of  a  wild  disposition, 
and  it  was  for  the  don  to  tame  her. 

"  Oh,  brother,  brother,  come  here." 

"  Just  one  moment,  sister  — " 

"  Suppose  some  one  should  come  in,  I  should  faint." 
Here  the  young  and  bashful  widow  covered  her  mouth 
with  her  hand,  and  laughed. 

Said  the  don  to  himself,  keeping  away  from  the  lady, 
whose  face  had  not  yet  turned  towards  him,  "  If  her  face 
is  equal  to  her  voice,  Don  Pasquale,  you  lucky  man  you, 
you  have  waited  for  something." 

"  Brother,  brother,  I  don't  like  to  be  left  alone." 

"  My  dear,  you  are  not  alone,  I  am  here,  and  here  is 
Don  Pasquale." 

"  Oh  !  oh  !  a  man !  —  oh  my  goodness  !  a  man, —  oh 
take  me  away  —  a  man  !  oh  I  never !  "  Here  there  was 
another  laugh. 

Here  the  don  congratulated  himself  more  than  ever. 


70  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

And  here,  also,  the  Doctor  said  to  himself,  "Poor  old 
fellow." 

"  Then  he  added,  "  Don't  be  afraid,  sister,  this  is  the 
noble  Don  Pasquale." 

"  Oh  indeed !  " 

Don  Pasquale  made  as  low  a  bow  as  a  stout  old  gentle- 
man could.  The  timid  young  lady  made  him  a  sweeping 
curtesy. 

"Thank  you,  sir  —  your  most  obedient.  Oh,  oh." 
Here  the  don  was  taking  her  hand. 

"  Oh  loving  hand,"  muttered  the  old  don. 

And  while  he  pranced  off  after  three  chairs,  there  was 
another  laugh,  suppressed,  from  under  the  veil. 

Each  chair  the  doctor  set  down  with  a  puff1  and  a  bang, 
and  at  last  he  sat  himself  down  in  the  center  one. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  her  ?  "  (in  a  low  voice  to  the 
don.) 

"  What  indeed !  But  that  veil  ? "  (in  a  lower  voice  to 
the  doctor.) 

"  Oh  !  she  would  not  dare  to  speak  to  a  man,  unveiled. 
Talk  to  her  a  little ;  see  if  your  dispositions  agree.  Then 
we  will  question  the  veil." 

"  Hum  —  hum  — (courage,  don,  courage) —  Am  delight- 
ed —  have  the  honor  —  your  brother  —  Dr.  Malatesta  — 
pray  did  you  speak  ?  " 

Here  she  got  up  and  made  him  another  curtesy. 
"  Oh  —  sir  your  most  obedient  —  sir." 

"  I  was  going  to  say,  no  doubt  you  like  company  of  an 
evening." 

"  Oh  dear  no.  We  never  do  at  the  convent.  We 
always  go  to  bed." 

**  Ah,  but  you  sometimes  went  to  the  theatre  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  —  dear, — >  what  —  is  —  that  ?  I'm  sure  —  I  never 
wished  to  go  there." 

"  Delightful,"  thought  the  old  don,  and  added,  "  And 
pra  y,  now,  how  did  you  pass  your  time  ?  " 

"  Oh,  sir,  in  sewing,  and  knitting,  and  embroidering,  and 
sometimes  I  played  with  the  pretty  little  cats." 

"  Ah,  ah."  (doctor.) 

"Dear  me,  doctor,  pray  be  still ;  'tis  rude  to  laugh,  even 
at  one's  sister.  But  doctor,  that  v.eil !  " 


BOX   PASQUALE.  77 

u  Dear  sister,  remove  thy  veil." 

"  Oh !  no,  I  couldn't  —  before  a  man." 

«  But  I  bid  you." 

"  Oh  yes  —  oh  yes,  brother  —  I  obey." 

The  don  rose  in  honor  of  this  act,  but  no  sooner  did  he 
eee  the  dove-like  face,  than  he  fell  upon  his  seat  again 
with  a  crash. 

"Pray,  Don  Pasquale,  what's  the  matter?  " 

"  Can't  tell,  doctor.  But  it  seemed  to  go  right  through 
me  —  speak  for  me,  doctor.  Tell  her  how  I  love  her." 

"Courage,  old  friend.  She' does  not  seem  indisposed 
towards  thee.  Now  tell  me,  sister —  this  gentleman  —  do 
you  like  him  ?  " 

After  casting  a  glance  at  the  don  who  was  admiring  his 
own  legs,  she  said.  "  —  I  —  I  —  I  think  I  do." 

"  She  consents,  don  ;  she  is  yours  !  " 

"  Oh  bliss  ;  oh  joy ;  oh  delight,  oh  ! " 

Here  came  another  of  those  mysterious  laughs. 

Said  then  the  don  in  a  loud  voice  (when  he  had  recov- 
ered it,)  "  A  notary." 

"Ah,  don,  a  notaiy  is  not  like  a  glass  of  wine,  ever  at 
hand;  but  anticipating  this  joyful  moment,!  have  brought 
a  notary  with  us." 

"  Quick,  quick,  quick,"  said  the  don. 

"Yes,  yes,  yes,"  replied  the  doctor,  and  running;  but 
he  returned  immediately,  with  the  false  notary,  Nephew 
Charles. 

Solemnly  this  functionary  walked  to  a  table,  sat  down 
a  mass  of  black  folds,  and  severely  took  up  a  pen. 

Then  said  the  doctor  pompously,  and  dictating  to  the 
grave  notary,  "  On  the  one  part,  et  cetera,  et  cetera,  So- 
phronia  Malatesta,  residing  et  cetera,  et  cetera,  and  the 
rest  of  it.  And  on  the  other  part,  Don  Pasquale,  et  cet- 
era, et  cetera,  residing  at  et  cetera,  et  cetera,  and  also  all 
the  rest  of  it." 

The  notary,  writing  hurriedly,  soon  completed  the  work. 

"  Very  good  !  "  said  the  proud  don,  "  and  then  continue 
—  which  above-named  gentleman  (I  mean  myself,)  from 
this  hour,  makes  over  one  half  his  goods  and  property,  by 
a  deed  of  gift  made  before  his  death,  to  his  most  beloved 
wife." 


78  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS.  ' 

This  was  also  written  in  a  hurry. 

"Bless  you !  bless  you ! "  said  the  doctor 

"Bl-1-less  you,  sir,  your  obedient,"  chimed  in  the  lady. 

The  notary  gravely  held  out  the  pen  for  signatures. 
Thereupon  the  don  seized  it,  and  speedily  signed  his 
name. 

"  Oh,  dear  sir,  I'd  rather  not ;  no,  don't  brother." 

For  the  doctor  was  again  pushing  her  forward.  The 
modest  woman  didn't  like  to  sign,  and  again  her  face  waa 
buried  in  her  handkerchief. 

"  Where  are  the  witnesses  ?  "  said  the  grave  notary. 

And  at  this  moment,  the  voice  of  a  gentleman  named 
Ernesto  was  heard  at  high  words  with  the  obdurate  foot- 
man. The  face  of  the  lady  thereupon  grew  very  grave, 
and  indeed  she  dropped  her  pen. 

"  Back,  back ! "  shouted  Ernesto,  without  the  room. 

And  the  lady  was  forced  to  confess  to  herself,  that  she 
now  really  began  to  tremble. 

And  so  also  did  the  doctor  tremble,  for  Ernesto  had  not 
been  informed  of  these  plans,  and  he  might  in  conse- 
quences spoil  all. 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  rush  at  the  door,  the  next 
moment  it  was  flung  open,  and  in  the  doorway  stood  the 
young  nephew. 

"  Sir,"  said  this  latter,  "  I  came  to  take  my  leave  of  you, 
and  I  am  debarred  your  presence  as  though  I  were  a 
robber." 

"  We  were  busy,  young  man,  very  busy  when  you  came 
to  the  door ;  however,  now  you  are  here,  gtop ;  sign  — 
witness.  Let  the  bride  advance." 

Tableau. 

The  "  young  man  "  was  about  explaining,  when  he  felt 
his  coat  pulled.  Then  the  doctor  said  quite  solemnly, 
"  This  is  Sophronia  —  my  sister." 

"So  — who?" 

"  So  that  you  be  quiet  —  never  mind  who,"  said  the 
doctor,  lowly.  "  For  your  own  sake,  be  still  — be  dumb: 
excuse  him,  don  —  the  poor  youth,  I  will  explain  all  to 
him."  And  as  the  old  don  bowed  in  his  own  absurd  fash- 
ion, the  doctor  led  the  youth  on  one  side,  and  thus  ad- 
monished him:  "  Now,  if  you  wish  to  be  your  own  enemy 


DON    PASQUALE.  7U 

and  Norina's,  go  on;  but  if  you  are  not  your  own  enemy 
and  Norina's,  don't," 
"  Just  so  —  but  —  " 

"Yes  —  exactly — don't,  as  I  said  before;  come  and 
sign  the  contract." 

Which,  with  great  doubt  still,  the  jealous  lover  did. 
Said  the  stern  notary,  rising  .from  his  chair,  "  You  are 
man  and  wife." 

The  writer  would  respectfully  have  it  understood  that 
he  is  in  no  way  responsible  for  this  astounding  free  and 
easy  marriage ;  far  be  it  from  him  so  to  dispose  of  brides. 
But  he  opines  that  'tis  a  way  they  have  in  Spain.  . 

Upon  that  notarial  announcement,  the  don.  was  faint, 
witli  joy,  and  the  next  moment  he  was  nearly  faint  with 
surprise. 

For  hardly  was  the  contract  completed,  hardly  had  the 
astounding  notarial  intimation  been  given,  than  the  bride 
throws  aside  her  veil,  and  with  it  her  meek  look.  Let  it 
not,  however,  be  said  she  assumed  a  bold  look  —  say  rath- 
er, an  easy,  cool,  pleasant  countenance. 

The  don  advanced  towards  the  lady  to  give  her  a  ma- 
rital embrace,  but  she  gently  pushed  him  back.  "  Soitly 
pray ;  calm  your  ardor ;  you  should  first  entreat  permis- 
sion." 

"And  I  do!"  — 

"  And"  I  do  not  permit." 

The  don  fell  plump  upon  his  chair,  and  looked  unmean- 
ingly after  the  notary,  who  was  quietly  withdrawing. 

"  Ah,  ah,  oh,"  said  the  youth  Ernesto,  as  he  saw  the 
blank  expression  on  his  uncle's  face. 

"  Sir  Nephew,  how  dare  you  laugh.  Quit  this  house. 
Begone ! " 

"  Begone,  don,  fie!"  said  the  new  wife  contemptuously. 
"  What  rudeness !  Pray  remain,  sir."  Then  turning 
rapidly  to  the  don,  she  said,  "I  must  teach  you  better 
manners." 

"  Doctor  Malatesta ! "  said  the  astounded  don. 

"  Don  Pasquale !  "  said  the  doctor  in  the  same  tone. 

"  This  is  quite  another  woman',  doctor." 

u  I  am  turned  to  stone,  don." 

"  What  does  she  mean  ?  " 


80  TALES  FKOM  THE  OPERAS. 

"  By  your  leave,  I'll  ask  her."  And  the  doctor  luckily 
turned  away,  for  his  red  face  was  quivering. 

As  for  the  lady  Norina,  she  marched  with  dignity  up  to 
and  against  the  don,  and  thus  terribly  spoke.  "  You  are 
too  old,  too  stout,  too  slow,  to  take  charge  of  a  young 
wife  through  the  streets ;  this  young  cavalier  shall  be  my 
IJEAU  ! " 

"  Oh,  dear  NO." 

"  And  pray  who  will  prevent  it  ?  " 

"/will." 

"You  said  —  " 

« I  will." 

"  7/ideed."  (Here  she  tenderly  approached  him,  and 
stroked  his  friendly  old  grey  head.)  "  Dear  husband  ; 
now  forget  those  horrid  words  'I  will,'  or  at  least  leave 
them  with  me,  with  me  alone,  for  the  wife  should  be 
obeyed." 

"But  — but!" 

"  But  us  no  buts,  dear  man.  Be  still,  I  say.  What,  are 
you  one  of  those  men  who  will  not  be  led  by  kindness? 
what,  would  you  dare  !  " 

Here  there  was  a  dull  rap  distinctly  heard,  it  was  a 
knock  on  the  don's  expostulating  knuckles. 

"Am  I  awake?"  asked  the  don  of  himself.  "What 
has  happened?  blows  I  think!  Pray  what  shall  come 
next  ? " 

In  fact,  the  don  looked  as  though  petrified  —  dreaming 
—  struck  by  lightning,  as  though  he  were  anybody  but 
himself. 

"  Courage,  don,  courage,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  Courage,  oh  dear,"  said  Don  Pasquale,  the  married 
man  sinking  lower  and  lower  in  his  chair. 

Suddenly  the  new  lady  of  the  house  flew  at  the  bell, 
and  rang  it  till  the  room  seemed  made  of  bells.  As  a 
servant  entered,  she  cast  the  implement  at  him. 

"  Let  all  the  servants  come  directly,  rascal." 

"  Oh,  heavens !  "  sighed  Don  Pasquale. 

Two  servants  and  the  steward  came  running  in  a  mo- 
ment after  at  a  tremendous  pace. 

"  Three !  Three  beggarly  servants.  Three.  As  for 
you,  steward.  Bow  lower,  sir,  bow  lower"  (stamp  of  the 


DON   PASQtTALE.  81 

foot) ;  "  listen  to  those  my  orders.  Turn  those  cubs  away 
at  once.  Get  new  servants,  good  looking  young  men  that 
will  do  us  credit ;  two  dozen  will  do." 

"  Oh,  heaven  ! "  exclaimed  Don  Pasquale. 

"  Steward,"  (another  stamp  of  the  foot)  how  dare  you 
turn  away.  Let  there  be  two  new  carriages  this  very 
evening  in  MY  stables  ;  as  for  MY  new  horses,  I  leave  the 
choice  to  you.  And  as  for  these  apartments,  they  are 
frightful,  they  shall  be  rebuilt.  And  as  for  this  horrid 
furniture,  it  shall  be  burnt." 

"  Oh,  heaven  !  have  you  done  ma'm?" 

"  No,  man.  Steward  (greater  stamp  of  the  foot  than 
ever,)  how  dare  you  not  keep  your  eyes  on  me?  Let 
everything,  everywhere,  always  be  in  the  first  style,  so  that 
people  may  respect  us.  Begone,  fool ! " 

"  And  pray  now  ma'm,"  suggested  the  don,  "  who 
pays?" 

"  And  pray  now  sir,  who  should  know  better  than  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  heaven !  Pray  am  I  master,  or  am  I  not  ?  " 

"You  are  not  —  master,  where  lam!  Zounds!"  She 
flings  over  a  chair. 

"  Sister,  sister,"  said  the  doctor,  but  the  sister  did  not 
even  look  at  him.  She  flew  at  the  don  as  well  as  she 
could,  seeing  she  was  a  wingless  angel ;  and  arrived  with- 
in a  quarter  of  an  inch  of  his  head,  bade  him,  in  the  most 
impassioned  language,  depart. 

"  Tell  me,  some  one,  have  I  married  her  ?  " 

"  Ah,  you  poor  man  you,"  said  the  new  wife ;  with  a 
sneer. 

Here  the  don  went  off  into  a  roaring,  yelping,  yelling 
rage,  tearing  his  own  clothes,  dilapidating  his  own  walls 
with  his  own  head,  and  damaging  his  personal  appearance 
with  nobody's  hands  but  his 'own. 

"  Oh,  brother,  brother,"  shrieked  the  doctor,  dashing 
after  the  don, .  who  was  taking  a  tour  of  destruction  all 
round  the  drawing-room  to  the  north,  while  his  lady  was 
doing  precisely  the  same  thing  to  the  south. 

"  Oh,  will  anybody  tell  me,"  asked  the  don  — "  am  I 
mad?" 

Well,  Norina  in  her  rage  worked  round  to  where  Ernes- 
to was  standing  —  and  then  she  was  wearing  her  own 
4* 


82  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

natural  bright  face,  and  reaching  that  youth  she  uttered 
this  little  speech.  "  Ah  !  well  —  Ernesto  " —  To  which 
the  youth  answered  —  "  Ah !  dear  Norina." 

So  it  may  be  supposed  that  both  were  gratified. 

The  next  moment  she  had  recommenced  her  sail  round 
the  room  :  but  by  this  time  the  doctor  had  run  up  to  the 
don  and  deftly  »turned  him  away  from  this  affectionate 
little  duet  of  soft  words. 

"My  goodness,  don,  what  a  pulse  —  eighty,  ninety,  one 
hundred  and  twenty,  twenty-five  —  Don  Pasquale  you 
must  straightway  go  to  BED  ! " 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  don's  pulse  was  moderate  by  a  late  hour  the  next 
day ;  and  having  obtained  the  permission  of  the  doctor, 
who  had  sedately  watched  all  night  by  the  bed,  to  go 
down  stairs,  the  poor  gentleman  crept  down  as  though  he 
had  never  danced  in  all  his  life. 

And  what  a  sight  when  he  reached  that  drawing-room 
of  his !  To  the  right,  dresses ;  to  the  left,  dresses ;  in 
front,  band-boxes ;  behind,  the  same ;  lace,  bobbins,  furs, 
scarfs,  shoes,  gloves  and  —  bills!  a  large  number,  all  in  a 
nice  little  heap  in  the  centre  of  the  table.  He  sat  down 
in  the  middle  of  all  this  invasion,  and  stared  about  him 
as  though  he  was  anybody  else  in  a  strange  place,  rather 
than  Don  Pasquale. 

He  was  still  sitting  staring  about  when  a  hair-dresser 
passed  quickly  through  the  room.  The  next  moment  a 
lady's  maid  appeared  at  the  door.  "  Good  gracious,"  said 
she,  "ain't  my  lady  a  scolding  —  do  be  quick  with  the 
diaments ! " 

"  Please,  miss,"  said  a  second  servant  to  the  lady's  maid, 
M  here's  the  milliner." 

"  Then  let  the  milliner  come  quick." 

The  milliner  rushed  past  the  don,  so  to  speak,  smother- 
ed in  boxes. 

At  the  door  she  was  met  by  another  waiting-woman, 
dashing  off  to  the  carriage  with  a  cloak,  a  bouquet,  and  a 


DON    PASQUALE.  83 

scent-bottle.  All  these  paraphernalia  were  handed  to  a 
footman,  and  then  back  the  woman  came,  and  crashed  up 
against  the  fourth  body  menial  — "  me  lady's  fan !  me 
lady's  gloves  !  me  lady's  veil ! " 

The  second  footman  without  the  door  fell  upon,  and 
bore  away  these  things. 

"  Me  lady's  carriage  ! " 

"Storms  and—  •"  something  else  said  Don  Pasquale, 
and  with  an  effort  fell  upon  the  pile  of  bills.  "  To  dress- 
maker, 100  dollars  — oh!  dear  me!  To  coach-maker,  six 
hundred  —  worse  and  worse.  Twice  as  much  to  the  jew- 
eller. To  horses  —  horses !  I  wish  they'd  carry  all  to 

,"  again  the  don  used  a  highly  improper  atom  of 

speech. 

Then  the  don  in  an  awful  whisper  said,  "  HERE  SHE  is!" 

In  she  came,  like  several  ladies  of  state,  and  dressed  as 
surely  never  pupil  at  a  convent  had  ever  been  dressed 
before.  She  did  not  see  him  as  she  passed  on,  not  she ; 
but  he  stopped  her  —  rather  hoped  he  would  excuse  her, 
and  faintly  desired  to  know  Avhither  she  was  going. 

She  loudly  desired  to  be  informed  what  that  was  to 
him  —  she  was  going  out ! 

Again  he  faintly  and  in  a  slightly  sarcastical  tone  ob- 
served that  a  husband  might  take  the  liberty  of  objecting. 

"A  husband  might  take  the  liberty,  and  it  certainly  was 
a  liberty ;  and  indeed,  a  husband  might  even  object,  but 
that  was  no  reason  why  the  wife  should  obey.  It  was  the 
duty  of  such  a  man  to  see,  and  hold  his  tongue ;  indeed, 
common  sense  would  tell  him  to  hold  his  tongue ;  for,  she 
would  ask  him,  was  he  listened  to  when  he  did  speak  ?  " 

"  Take  care,  take  care." 

"  It  were  wise,  don,  to  take  care  of  yourself." 

"  Go  to  your  room,  ma'am." 

"  You  were  best  in  yours.     Go  to  bed,  and  to  sleep 
We  will  talk  about  this  to-morrow." 

"You  shall  not  pass." 

"  Ah  !  you  fill  up  the  door.    Indeed  —  don." 

"Yes." 

"Pray,  now  move." 

a  I  will  not." 

«Ah!" 


84  TALES    FIIOM    THE    Ol'KUAS. 

What  is  it  makes  fire  flash  in  the  old  eyes  of  the  new 
husband?  Was  it  a  humiliating  box  on  the  ear  —  the 
right  ear  ?  Yes  —  yes. 

She  came  out  from  the  door-way. 

Meanwhile  the  young -Norina  asked  herself  if  she  were 
not  going  too  far. 

"  Then  I  may  go  now?" 

"  Yes,  go  where  you  like.  Go  anywhere,  so  that  you 
don't  come  back." 

"  I  shall  then  see  you  to-morrow  —  hem ! " 

"  You  will  find  my  doors  closed." 

"  Bah !  be  not  a  tyrant,  poor  grandfather.  Sleep  well, 
and  when  the  morning  comes,  I  will  call  you." 

And  she  sailed  out  grandly. 

"Divorce,  divorce!"  he  shrieked  out  as  the  lady  left 
him  —  "  divorce  !  if  this  is  wedlock  —  what's  that  ?  " 

That  was  a  paper  which  Noriua  had  dropped  on  going 
jut. 

He  picked  it  up,  after  some  effort.  "Another  horrid 
bill,  I  find  one  in  every  corner — eh!  what!  ah  !" — (here 
he  read.)  "  '  Between  nine  and  ten  I  shall  be  at  that  part 
of  the  garden  which  looks  to  the  north  ;  for  greater  pre- 
caution try  to  let  me  in  through  the  secret  door.  I  shall 
warn  you  by  singing.  Adieu.'  I  shall  go  mad,  I,  Don 
Pasquale  — I  shall  go  mad.  Malatesta,  send  for  Malates- 
ta.  Here,  some  one  —  any  one  —  ALL  —  go  fetch  Doctor 
Malatesta.  All — I  say  —  all."  And  out  he  tumbled 
from  the  room. 

Then  came  the  servant's  parliament.  "Up  and  down. 
Up  and  down.  Did  you  ever?  First  a  bell  this  way  — 
then  a  bell  that  way.  Who  could  bear  it?  Did  you 
ever,  now?  Horrid.  Not  a  moment's  peace.  A  uoo.l 
house  —  yes,  a  good  house.  But  still,  why  she  made  a 
piece  of  work  when  her  breakfast  went  up,  and  when  her 
dinner  went  up,  too.  Then  there  was  a  disturbance  \vlu-n 
she  went  out.  He  flies  into  a  passion,  she  flies  into  a 
Averse  passion  than  ever,  and  then  they  fought!  Lor! 
Oh  yes  !  She  hit  him.  You  don't  say  so ! " 

When  footsteps  were  heard  approaching,  the  house 
adjourned. 

It  was  the  doctor  and  Ernesto,  still  plotting.     Ernesto 


DON   PASQUALE.  85 

was  to  appear  at  the  secret  door,  and  he  was  to  take  great 
care  that  the  don  should  not  recognize  him.  Here  the 
heavy  step  of  that  luckless  gentleman  was  heard  coming 
towards  the  room,  so  that  Ernesto  fled  like  guilt. 

The  don  came  in  paler,  and  colder,  and  more  dejected 
than  ever. 

"Don  Pasquale!" 

"  A  living  corpse,  brother." 

"  The  matter — what  is  the  matter?  " 

"  I  wish,"  said  the  gentleman  to  himself  "  I  wish  I  had 
rather  given  a  thousand  Norinas  to  Ernesto." 

"A  good  thing  to  know,"  thought  the  doctor,  as  the  don 
thus  spoke.  Then  aloud,  "  But  pray  explain  yourself." 

"  Half  my  income  spent  in  ribbons  ;  but  that  is  noth- 
ing." 

"  Dear  me  —  go  on." 

"  To  the  theatre  she  will  go  — but  also  that  is  nothing." 

"  Dear  me  —  proceed." 

"  My  ears  she  boxes  with  a  will  —  that  is  nothing." 

"  Indeed  —  indeed." 

"  But  just  look  here.     I  think  that's  something,  surely." 

Here  he  handed  the  horrid  letter  to  the  doctor,  whose 
horror  was  unapproachable  when  he  had  read  it  minutely. 

"  Stone,  don,*  I'm  stone." 

"  So  am  I.     Revenge  !  revenge ! " 

"  Surely  don.     Revenge  !  revenge  ! '' 

"  And  I  have  the  means.     Sit  down." 

"  The  means." 

"To  the  garden  on  tip  toe  —  you  and  I  —  we  softly  £jo 
—  on  and  on  behind  each  tree  —  fearing  one  of  them 
should  see  —  then  upon  them  straight  we  fall  —  and  loud- 
ly for  assistance  call.  Then  to  prison  off  they  go  —  and 
thus  am  I  avenged  you  know.  And  now  doctor  if  you 
can  —  please  devise  a  better  plan." 

"  Very  good  ;  but,"  said  the  doctor,  "  he  had  a  better 
plan,  which  he  would  divulge  only  on  one  condition, 
namely,  that  the  don  should  agree  to  all  he  should  pro- 
pose." 

The  don  was  too  fallen  to  oppose,  so,  with  this  arrange- 
ment, away  they  trundled  towards  the  garden. 


80  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 


CHAPTER  V. 

IN  the  garden,  where  the  last  scene  of  the  don's  mnr- 
ried  life  was  to  take  place,  and  in  the  moonlight,  tripped 
Norina —  a  young  widow  again — to  the  secret  garden 
gate.  Click,  click  went  the  lock,  and  the  next  moment 
Ernesto  was  at  her  little  feet,  vowing  in  the  warmest 
manner  that  he  loved  her. 

Barely  had  he  got  through  a  dozen  protestations -when 
there  was  the  flashing  of  a  few  rays  from  a  dark  lantern 
all  up  and  down  the  garden  walks,  and  there  was  the 
cranching  of  the  don's  heavy  legs  in  the  gravel,  followed 
by  the  lighter  walk  of  the  intriguing  doctor. 

The  doctor  quite  cleverly  showed  the  little  lantern  rays 
as  lie  slid  behind  from  tree  to  tree,  and  as  he  did  not  see 
Ernesto  glide  away  to  the  house. 

AH  of  a  sudden,  and  with  a  terrific  lunge,  he  dashed 
before  Noriua,  and  started  open  the  dark  little  lantern  full 
in  her  face. 

"  Thieves !  thieves !  " 

"Hush,  ma'am,  where  is  he?" 

"  Who,  the  thief—  thieves  !  thieves ! " 

"  No,  ma'am,  he  —  who  was  whispering  in  your  ear." 

"  Sir,  how  DARE  you.     There  was  no  one  here." 

Whereon  the  don  shot  the  dark  lantern  all  round  and 
about,  like  clock-work. 

"  Sir,  I  say  again,  how  dare  you,  there  was  no  one  here." 

"  Pray  what  were  you  doing  at  this  dark  spot,  at  this 
hour  of  midnight  ?  " 

"  Enjoying  the  cool  air  and  the  moonlight." 

"  Begone  ma'am  —  out  of  my  house,  ma'am." 

u  Sir,  what  tone  is  this ?  " 

"  I  say,  begone  ma'am." 

"  A  pretty  tale ;  this  house  is  mine,  and  in  it  I'll  re- 
miin." 

*'  Ten  thousand  bombs,  you  won't." 

u  Ten  thousand  bombs  I  will." 

"  Don  Pasquale,  Don  Pasquale,"  said  the  doctor,  "  pray 
leave  it  all  to  me.  Sister,  I  would  spare  you." 


DON   PASQUALE.  87 

u  Would  you,  sir,  indeed." 

"  To-raorrow,  a  new  bride  will  be  brought  to  this 
house." 

"  How  dare  you,  sir,  indeed." 

Don  Pasquale  paid  great  attention  to  the  dialogue. 

"  And  pray  whose  bride  ?  " 

"  Ernesto's,  Norina.  That  contemptible,  coquettish,  ar- 
rant widow ! " 

Don  Pasquale  felt  some  satisfaction,  and  cried  out, 
"  Bravo,  doctor." 

"  That  odious  woman,  here  in  spite  of  me.  Norina  and 
I  under  the  same  roof.  Never,  I'll  leave  the  house  first." 

"DO." 

"  But  stop,  stop,  brother.  Perhaps  this  is  a  trick.  I 
must  be  sure  of  it." 

The  doctor  went  up  to  the  don  and  said,  "  Then  Don 
Pasquale,  you  must  let  them  marry,  or  she'll  never  go." 

"Never?     Will  she  when  they  are  married?" 

"  Here  —  house  !  who  is  there  ?  Why,  as  I'm  a  doctor, 
'tis  Ernesto." 

"Well,  well." 

"  I,  Doctor  Malatesta,  speaking  for  Don  Pasquale,  grant 
you  the  hand  of  Norina,  and  an  income  of  four  thousand 
dollars  a  year." 

"  Dear  uncle,  is  this  true  ?  " 

"  Dear  nephew,  yes  it  is." 

"  And  I  (stamp  of  the  foot)  oppose  it." 

"  And  ./(don,  shaking  his  head)  do  not.  Go  and  fetch 
her,  some  one  ;  go  and  fetch  her  straight." 

Said  the  doctor.  "  No  one  need  go  far,  for  she,  Norina's 
here." 

"  What  —  what  —  what  —  what  —  what  1 " 

Here  Norina  made  a  full  curtsey. 

"  TIIEX  WHERE'S  SOFHKONIA  ! " 

"I'd  not  be  sure,  dear  don,  she  should  be  in  her  con- 
vent." « 

"  And  the  marriage,  doctor." 

"A  glimpse,  dear  don,  of  what  your  future  miglvt  have 
been." 

"Dear — dear  —  dear  —  dear  —  dear'  Thank  heaven. 
Still  —  " 


88  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

"  Come  don,  be  generous." 

Need  it  be  said  where  the  two  "  young  people  "  were 
at  this  particular  moment  —  of  course,  at  the  don's  stout 
feet. 

The  don  blessed  them  in  the  usual  manner,  and  the 
young  people  rose,  happy. 

THE  MORAL  OF  THIS  IS  MOST  EASILY  GUESSED, 
IN  AGE  TO  SHUN  WIVES,  IS  OF  WISDOM  THE  BEST. 


LA    SOMNAMBULA.     (BEILINI.) 

THE  SLEEP   WALKER. 


CHAPTER  I. 

IN  a  beautiful  valley  in  Switzerland  there  lived  a 
maiden  whose  name  was  Amina,  a  poor  village  foundling, 
who  was  as  fondly  loved  by  the  woman  who  had  adopted 
her  as  her  own  mother  might  have  loved.  There  also 
lived  in  the  valley  a  rich  farmer  whose  name  was  Elvino. 
Not  much  wealth  truly  had  he,  but  enough  to  make  him 
the  richest  person  in  the  parish,  except  the  absent  lord. 
Count  Rudolpho. 

At  the  village  inn  (as  all  villages  are  supposed  to 
possess  that  appendage)  lived  Liza,  its  mistress,  but 
alas !  scandal  said  many  cruel  things  of  her ;  in  fact, 
there  were  two  or  three  very  ugly  tales  about  her,  but 
they  were  all  so  dim  that  when  any  of  her  female  ac- 
quaintances quarrelled  with  her,  which  thing  frequently 
happened,  the  other  one  could  only  vaguely  hint,  but 
could  never  positively  assert  anything. 

But  whether  or .  no,  certain  it  is  that  young  Elvino, 
who  fell  in  love  with  Liza  when  he  was  young,  but  as  he 
grew  older,  he  shook  that  love  off,  and  Liza  herself  de- 
clared with  much  warmth,  that  it  was  all  owing  to  that 
chit  of  a  child  Amina;  scandal  did  say  that  it  was  all 
owing  to  Liza  herself. 

Be  that  however,  as  it  may,  it  is  very  certain  that 
having  abandoned  Liza,  Elvino  soon  grew  madly  in  love 
with  Amina,  whom  all  the  women  declared  to  be  very 
plain,  an  evident  proof  of  the  young  creature's  pretty 
1'aco. 

Amina  worked  hard  and  well  for  a  living,  and  she 
laughed  at  Liza,  as  well  she  might,  having  certainly  the 
best  of  the  position. 

The  village  was  a  very  happy  one  throughout  the  day 


90  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

but  when  night  came,  it  was  quite  the  reverse.  "  The 
phantom"  weighed  the  village  down.  It  was  clothed  all 
in  white,  was  very  tall,  and  every  villager  trembled  as  he 
spoke  or  even  thought  of  it. 

It  had  been  the  ruin  ot'  Liza's  best  bed  room,  into 
which  this  phantom  would  glide  in  the  dead  of  the  night 
through  the  unfastened  window,  which  opened  down  to 
the  ground,  and  upon  the  flower  garden ;  beyond  which, 
and  across  a  rickety,  unused  bridge,  stood  the  little  cot 
of  Amina's  adopted  mother,  Teresa. 

Sooner  than  sleep  in  Liza's  best  bed  room,  any  peasant 
would  have  slept  out  upon  one  of  the  mountain  tops. 
Yes,  the  village  was  a  happy  village,  if  you  took  away 
the  phantom. 

Well,  at  last  it  was  understood  that  Amina  and  Elvino 
were  to  be  married,  and  the  very  night  came  when  the 
contract  of  marriage  was  to  be  signed.  'Twas  summer 
time,  so  the  contract  was  signed  in  the  broad  street  itself, 
just  opposite  Liza's  house,  behind  which  stood  the  old 
mill,  the  unused  bridge,  and  Amina's  cot,  or,  to  be 
honest,  Teresa's  cot,  though  for  that  matter,  everything 
that  belonged  to  Teresa  was  Amina's. 

Elvino  endowed  Amina  with  all  his  wealth.  Amina 
said  she  could  only  endow  Elvino  with  her  love,  and  that 
youth  was  perfectly  satisfied.  Liza  signed  the  contract, 
and  very  spitefully  she  signed  it  too. 

The  good-tempered  fool  of  the  village,  Alesso,  was 
rather  fond  of  Liza,  and  he  offered  her  the  pen,  but 
she  took  it  with  such  a  snatch,  that  he  regretted  his 
politeness. 

"Never  mind,  never  mind,"  said  Amina,  patting  the 
disconsolate  fool  on  the  back ;  "  *tis  a  way  she  hath  of 
shewing  her  love  for  thee." 

"  Then  I  should  like  to  know,  Mam'selfe  Amina,  how 
she  would  show  her  dislike  for  me." 

All  having  signed  the  contract,  the  bridegroom  pre- 
sented his  bride  with  the  ring  —  a  plain  little  fillet  of 
gold,  but  how  great  a  treasure  when  given  between  a 
couple,  whose  only  difference  of  opinion  is  which  loves 
the  other  the  best. 


LA   SOMNAMBTJLA.  91 

"  Take  now  this  ring,  I  pray  thee, 
In  assurance  that  I  wed 
She  who  once  nobly  wore  it 
Was  my  mother,  who  is  dead. 

"  0  !  sacred  be  the  gift,  love, 
Let  it  aid  thee  in  thy  vow  ; 
And  ever,  ever  bid  us 
Love,  dear  wife,  as  we  love  now. 

It  need  not  be  said  that  the  word  "  wife  "  applied  by 
Elvino  was  hardly  right ;  for  the  church  had  to  bless  the 
couple  before  he  could  fairly  use  the  tender  term,  and  the 
church  would  not  do  that  till  the  next  day. 

Well,  the  ring  had  hardly  been  given,  when,  with  a 
great  smacking  of  a  whip,  a  travelling  carnage  drove 
into  the  village,  up  to  the  inn,  and,  as  a  consequence, 
right  into  the  heart  of  the  contract-signing  party. 

From  this  carriage  alighted  a  fine-looking  gentleman. 

"  How  weary  the  road  is,"  said  the  stranger  to  his 
postillion ;  "  how  many  miles  to  the  castle  ?  " 

*'  So  please  you  three,  monsieur,  and  a  dreadful  road ; 
—  have  a  delightful  inn,  monsieur  —  my  inn  — if  monsieur 
would  do  me  the  honor  to  walk  in." 

"True,"  said  the  handsome  gentleman,  smiling;  "see- 
ing your  face,  I  recollect  you  and  also  the  inn." 

Alesso  heard  this  admission,  and  immediately  began 
to  puzzle  his  brains  to  find  out  who  this  new  arrival  was, 
and  for  that  purpose  he  went  peering  amongst  the  boxes 
and  portmanteaux. 

u  And  pray,  good  people,  do  you  ever  think  of  this  new 
lord,  whom  you  have  not  seen  since  he  was  a  boy  ?  " 

The  villagers  immediately  began  talking  about  this 
lord  with  great  force  ;  would  he  <x>me  ?  why  had  he  not 
come  before  ?  pray  did  the  good  monsieur  know  him  ? " 
tfec.,  &c. 

The  stranger  laughingly  said  they  would  ask  questions 
till  the  evening  was  night ;  but  this  assertion  Alesso 
doubted ;  for  he  could  assure  monsieur  that  they  would 
not  stop  to  question  even  the  new  lord  himself  when  the 
night  came. 

"  Indeed,  why  not  ?  " 


92  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

What!  what!  had  monsieur  never  heard  of  their 
village  spectre  ?  Why,  where  had  monsieur  been  ?  He, 
Alesso,  thought  it  was  talked  of  all  —  over  —  the  —  world ! 

The  stranger  desired  to  have  it  described. 

A  villager  then  sang — 

"  When  day  has  gone  —  when  night  has  come, 
When  howls  the  wind  —  when  thunders  roar, 
Then  on  the  hill-top,  all  dressed  in  white, 
Thoul't  see  this  shade  —  thou'lt  see  with  awe  ! ' 

"  Without  a  step  it  glides  along, 
With  hanging  hair  —  with  glaring  eyes. 
On  —  on  it  glides,  and  then  'tis  gone, 
And  as  'tis  lost,  it  utters  cries  !  " 

The  stranger  laughed,  and  said  he  would  soon  find  out 
the  mystery  if  he  lived  there. 

It  may  be  presumed  that  the  stranger  had  been  living 
in  Paris  ;  but  certainly  he  was  very  gallant. 

He  flattered  Liza  somewhat,  but  turning  his  eyes  full 
upon  Amina,  he  forgot  Liza  altogether,  and  began  paying 
the  young  bride  a  great  many  compliments. 

She  smiled  at  the  compliments  paid  her  by  the  stranger, 
and  answered  smartly ;  but  at  last  grew  timid  as  the  count 
grew  bolder ;  and  indeed  she  was  not  sorry  when  Elvino 
came  up,  and  accidentally  stood  between  them.  The 
count  requiring  some  explanation,  Elvino  gave  it  him  by 
plainly  telling  him  she  was  his  wife ;  whereupon  the 
count  congratulated  him  on  his  good  fortune. 

Well,  the  contract  business  over,  the  notary  departed 
for  home ;  the  villagers  also  within  doors ;  the  count  in 
the  village  inn,  and  Liza  retired,  rather  annoyed  and  an- 
gry; the  two  young  people  were  in  the  moonlight, 
bidding  each  other  good  night. 

At  last,  after  a  long  time,  Amina's  mother  had  the 
opportunity  of  remonstrating  upon  late  hours,  and  then 
Amina  went  to  bed  for  the  last  time  in  that  little  cot  of 
her  adopted  mother's. 


93 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  stranger  looked  curiously  about  the  haunted  room, 
when  shown  to  it  by  Liza.  There  was  the  white-curtained 
bed  standing  near  the  window ;  the  door-windows  open 
to  admit  the  cool  night  air;  and  beyond,  the  garden, 
and  the  unused  rickety  bridge. 

He  looked  out  through  the  open  window,  and  then 
returning  where  Liza  was  standing,  began  talking  gaily 
to  her. 

Liza  not  feeling  gratified  by  his  former  conduct,  answer- 
ed rather  pertly,  and  told  him  that  the  villagers  had  dis- 
covered who  he  was  —  Count  Rodolpho ;  and  further 
intimated  that  they  were  coming  to  pay  their  respects  to 
their  young  lord.  The  "young  lord"  said  he  cared 
naught  for  the  whole  village,  while  so  pretty  a  woman 
was  by  his  side.  Whereat  Liza  smiling,  the  count  —  for 
it  was  the  count  —  grew  bolder,  and  insisted  upon  having 
one  kiss,  when  a  noise  frightened  Liza,  and  she  ran  quick- 
iy  behind  the  bed.  But  as  she  ran,  some  portion  of  the 
bedstead  caught  the  light  scarf  about  her  shoulders,  and 
tore  it  from  them.  She  took  no  notice  of  this  mishap, 
but  ran  and  hid  herself  behind  the  curtains. 

Certainly  she  had  heard  a  noise.  'Twas  a  light  foot- 
fall. Nearer  —  then  nearer  still. 

The  count  went  to  the  closed  door,  light  in  hand,  and 
listened. 

The  step  was  not  coming  that  way. 

Still  the  slight  noise  continued ;  nearer  and  nearer  still. 
Then  a  light  flashed  through  the  open  window.  He  ran 
towards  it,  and  then  started  back. 

It  was  the  phantom  they  had  told  him  of —  a  white 
figure  moving  slowly  along,  with  a  lamp  steadily  held  in 
one  hand. 

Nothing  daunted,  he  moved  towards  the  figure,  as  it 
sik-ntly  entered  the  room,  and  put  down  the  light.  And 
then  he  saw  that  it  was  the  village  girl  to  whom  he  had 
spoken  but  an  hour  or  so  before. 

He  drew  his  breath  silently,  as  he  recognized  her,  for 


94  TALES  FBOM  THE  OPERAS. 

he  knew  that  she  was  a  somnambulist,  and  that  if  woke 
too  suddenly  she  might  fall  dead. 

But  he  kept  his  eyes  upon  her,  as  she  moved  from  the 
table  towards  his  bed. 

On  —  on ;  slowly  —  slowly,  till  she  came  to  the  bed  ; 
upon  which  she  laid  down,  whispering  Elvino's  name,  and 
then  in  a  minute  was  sleeping  peacefully. 

He  stepped  lightly  to  the  window,  saw  how  she  had 
entered,  closed  and  fastened  the  sashes,  returned  to  the 
bed  —  hesitated  fora  moment,  then  turning  towards  the 
choor,  he  retired. 

The  woman  Liza,  immediately  he  had  left,  came  from 
behind  the  bed,  where  she  had  remained,  gave  one  earn- 
est look  at  the  unconscious  Amina,  and  quickly  left  the 
room. 

Now  was  the  time  for  revenge.  Now  Amina  should 
feel  what  it  was  to  have  a  rival ;  now  she  should  suffer 
for  alienating  Elvino  from  her.  And  Elvino,  too,  should 
weep,  and  be  sorry  for  having  slighted  her.  She  would 
tell  him  he  had  cruelly  dismissed  her,  and  she  would  add 
that  in  revenge  she  would  point  at  the  Amina  he  believed 
so  good  and  pure. 

Now,  the  villagers  instead  of  soberly  going  to  bed,  got 
up  a  demonstration  of  delight  in  honor  of  the  count's 
return,  and  a  score  or  so  of  tJie  principal  people  in  the 
place  entered  the  inn  to  congratulate  the  count  just  as  he 
left  his  room.  The  deputation  grandly  demanding  of 
Liza  to  be  shown  into  the  count's  apartment,  Mademoi- 
selle Liza,  with  all  the  simplicity  in  the  world,  said  she 
would  head  them,  and  so  the  procession  entered  the  haunt- 
ed room  to  congratulate  the  count  —  but  to  find  whom  ? 
The  poor  girl  still  sleeping  soundly,  and  little  dreaming 
of  what  was  coming. 

"  Amina ! "  they  all  cried,  as  with  one  voice. 

And  they  looked  towards  Elvino,  who  formed  one  of 
the  deputation. 

They  made  room  for  him,  falling  away  on  each  M<lc. 
He  ran  up  to  the  bed  side,  and  there  she  still  lay  asleep, 
breathing  peacefully. 

He  uttered  a  loud  cry,  and  with  a  start  she  awoke. 

As  she  saw  the  crowd  about  her,  she  shrunk  back  with 


T.A    SOSEN'AMBtJLA.  95 

alarm,  and  covered  her  eyes,  thinking  possibly  'twas  some 
terrible  dream.  Then,  as  they  all  stood  silent  about  her, 
she  again  looked. 

Too  terrified  now  to  shut  out  the  sight,  she  remained 
for  a  moment  or  two  gazing  before  her. 

Suddenly  she  spoke.     "  Where  am  I  ?     Where  am  I  ?  " 

Bounding  from  the  bed,  she  looked  from  right  to  left, 
still  dimly  seeing  the  faces,  and  again  cried,  "  Where  am 
I?  Where  ami?" 

"  Ask  thine  own  unhappy  self!  "  said  a  voice  she  knew, 
and  turned  towards  it.  ^ 

"  Ah,  Elvino  ! "  and  she  put  out  her  arms  to  him. 

But  he  flung  her  from  him  to  the  ground,  and  there 
she  knelt  gazing  at  him  with  her  arms  clasped  upon  her 
breast,  wondering  what  her  fault  was. 

Xot  yet  comprehending  either  her  position  or  his  words, 
she  looked  to  the  nearest  woman;  but  she  turned  her 
back  upon  the  girl,  as  did  the  next  to  whom  the  poor  girl 
moved  her  eyes. 

Then,  panic-struck,  she  ran  round  the  room  from  one  to 
the  other,  still  not  knowing  what  her  fault  was. 

They  all  drew  back  from  her  as  though  she  were  a 
plague  ;  so  she  moved  quite  naturally  to  Elvino  again  — 
her  husband  as  she  thought  him. 

But  he  showed  the  greatest  repugnance  to  her. 

Then,  as  she  felt  herself  deserted,  they  told  her  her 
crime. 

Vainly  she  declared  her  innocence;  vainly  she  wept, 
flinging  herself  _upon  her  knees  ;  vainly  she  spoke  of  her 
past  life ;  vainly  she  said  she  could  not  tell  how  she  came 
there  ;  vainly  she  turned  to  Liza,  whose  heart  was  stone, 
who  turned  from  her  with  the  rest ;  vainly  she  clung  to 
her  Elvino's  very  feet :  he  shook  her  from  him  and  strode 
towards  the  door. 

As  he  was  leaving  the  haunted  room,  Amina's  adopted 
mother  came  past  the  threshhold,  and  though  they  all 
told  her  what  they  believed  of  the  village  queen,  this 
mother,  the  only  one  amongst  all  these  simple,  honest  vil- 
lage folk,  went  up  to  her  daughter,  and  put  her  arms  about 
her  neck. 

So  at  last  the  iciness  of  despair  gave  way  before  this 


96  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

one  touch  of  sympathy,  and  the  poor  girl  with  her  mo- 
ther's arms  about  her,  wept  bitterly,  and  so  gave  relief  to 
her  young  heart. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  village  generally  condemned  her;  especially  Liza. 
Not  a  single  voice  was  heard  in  her  favor  but  her  mother's. 

Ah,  yes,  there  was  one  voice  in  her  favor  —  honest 
Alesso's,  the  good-tempered  fool's.  He  would  not  believe 
in  Amina's  guilt,  which  determination  of  his  thoroughly 
stamped  him  a  fool  in  the  eyes  of  all.  Her  guilt  was  so 
palpable ;  doubt  her  guilt !  you  might  as  well  doubt  the 
light  of  the  sun. 

Liza,  as  before  said,  was  especially  severe,  and  doubted 
whether  she  ought  to  be  allowed  to  remain  in  the  village. 
But  nobody  supported  such  a  doubt ;  they  were  not  quite 
so  virtuous  themselves  as  to  come  to  that  conclusion. 
Alesso,  indeed,  spite  of  his  belief  in  Amina's  innocence, 
admired  Liza  more  than  ever,  for  her  stern  virtue,  and 
sighed  as  he  thought  that  man  would  be  happy  who  should 
call  Liza  wife. 

Alesso  had  long  thought  he  should  be  happy  to  be  that 
man,  but  though  Liza  had  never  given  him  much  hope,  he 
had  never  given  it  up  in  despair,  therefore  it  may  be  imag- 
ined with  what  grief  he  heard  only  the  next  morning  after 
the  catastrophe,  that  Elvino  had  made  up  his  mind,  and 
told  somebody,  who  had  told  somebody  else,  who  had  told 
it  to  Alesso,  that  Elvino  meant  to  make  proposals  to 
Liza ;  and  before  three  hours  had  elapsed  this  was  con- 
firmed throughout  the  village. 

As  for  the  poor  girl  Amina,  she  wept  most  piteously. 

Towards  the  afternoon  of  the  unhappy  day  which  came 
after  the  catastrophe,  she  sought  him  out,  helped  by  her 
stout-hearted  mother,  and  made  another  effort  to  regain 
his  old  love  for  her.  She  was  no  heroine  —  only  a  simple 
village  maid ;  so  she  did  not  upbraid  him,  she  only  en- 
treated and  protested. 

He  would  not  listen  to  her :  when  she  again  left  him,  he 


LA    SOMXAMBULA.  97 

had  got  back  the  betrothal  ring  he  had  placed  upon  her 
finger  —  the  dear  ring  his  mother  had  worn. 

By  that  night  he  had  asked  for  and  gained  Liza's  con- 
sent to  take  her  to  wife,  and  poor  little  Amina's  remaining 
hopes  (nursed  by  her  mother)  were  all  dead. 

When  evening  came  upon  the  village,  the  greater  part 
of  the  villagers  were  in  their  tiny  cots,  and  a  score  or  so, 
together  with  Liza,  Elvino,  and  Alesso,  were  seated  before 
the  inn  door,  behind  which  stood  the  cottage,  within  which 
was  the  unhappy  little  woman,  now  fallen  asleep,  and  sob- 
bing as  she  slept. 

What  made  Elvino  suddenly  start  —  what  made  him, 
run  forward  with  his  fists  clenched,  and  his  breath  convul- 
sive ? 

The  Count,  the  Count  Rudolpho,  who  had  been  missing 
since  the  unhappy  affair,  now  came  forward  to  speak  out 
the  truth,  and  upon  whose  silence  the  cowardly  Liza  had 
relied. 

It  is  a  comfort  to  know  that  a  libertine  need  not  neces- 
sarily be  a  liar  though  he  very  frequently  is  :  and  in  this 
especial  case  Count  Rudolpho  spoke  the  truth.  He  de- 
clared the  whole  tale  from  beginning  to  end,  and,  doubt- 
less, he  would  have  appealed  to  Liza  for  corroboration, 
but  that,  that  discreet  person  got  out  of  the  way. 

As  for  the  lover,  who  still  so  deeply  loved,  that  he  was 
actually  going  to  marry  a  woman  for  whom  he  cared  naught 
as  a  revenge,  he  would  believe  nothing  that  the  count 
said.  Indeed,  how  could  the  girl  have  entered  the  inn,  if 
not  with  the  count's  aid. 

The  'noble  pointed  to  the  unused  bridge,  but  Elvino 
scouted  the  idea ;  why  it  would  fall  at  the  least  touch, 
how  then  could  she  have  passed  over  it  ? 

The  count  was  turning  away  in  despair,  when  a  noise  a 
little  distance  off  arrested  his  steps ;  the  villagers  turned 
and  saw  the  village  phantom,  and  they  saw  at  once  who 
it  was. 

Again,  Am  in  a  was  walking  in  her  sleep  ;  again  she  was 
moving  towards  the  old  ruined  bridge ;  again  she  carried 
a  flickering  light  in  her  hand. 

As  Elvino  saw  her,  all  his  old  love  returning,  he  ran 
forward  and  would  have  shouted  to  her,  but  that  the  count 
6 


98  TALES   FROM   TIIE    OPERAS. 

sped  after  him,  laid  a  hand  upon  his  mouth,  and  softly,  yet 
imperatively,  bade  him  be  silent. 

The  lover  flung  himself  upon  his  knees,  stretched  out 
his  arms  towards  his  pure  wife,  and  with  straining  eyes 
watched  her  coming. 

Nearer  to  the  old  bridge  —  which  was  rotten,  and  below 
which  was  a  roaring  torrent.  Nearer  still,  then  one  foot 
was  upon  it. 

All  silent  with  fear  they  drew  back  a  pace,  as  though 
each  had  stepped  upon  the  tottering  wood,  or  as  though 
he  could  prevent  her  second  step  by  the  act. 

Again  a  step  forward,  and  she  was  fairly  on  the  bridge, 
the  angry  water  roaring  beneath. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  crackling  sound,  and  as  they 
heard  it,  they  flung  themselves  down  upon  their  knees, 
and  hid  their  faces  in  their  hands. 

When  they  stood  up  again  they  expected  to  see  her  and 
the  bridge  no  longer  before  them.  But  the  brave  old 
bridge  had  only  cracked ;  there  was  a  great  flaw  in  it,  and 
there  also  stood  Amina  as  though  in  doubt,  as  though 
cautious  of  her  next  step.  The  hand  which  had  held  the 
light  was  still  held  out,  but  the  lamp  was  gone,  the  rup- 
ture of  the  stones  had  shaken  it  from  her  hold. 

If  now  she  sees  her  way  by  the  lighted  lamp  ;  if  now 
she  stands  undecided,  because  she  can  no  longer  see  whore 
to  make  her  steps,  she  is  lost,  for  no  one  can  dare  step  on 
to  the  rotten  bridge  to  save  her,  and  she  will  fall  over  the 
low  parapet,  and  so  be  lost. 

But  no  ;  again  she  steps  on — feeling  carefully  with  her 
foot ;  again  she  hesitates,  as  her  sliding  foot  comes  against 
an  unaccustomed  projection,  caused  by  the  fracture  of  the 
stone- work. 

Then  again  she  moves  on  —  a  step ;  another ;  yet 
another  —  and  she  is  safe. 

Then  they  all  fell  on  their  knees,  and  so  gained  pardon 
for  having  wrongfully  accused  the  poor  girl. 

For  had  she  been  guilty,  she  would  not  have  had  the 
courage  to  try  and  cheat  the  villagers.  Yes,  she  was 
really  asleep,  and  had  no  idea  of  the  danger  she  had  run. 

She  came  close  to  the  spot  upon  which  knelt  her  Elvi- 
no,  whom  she  had  now  gained  back  to  her  whilst  she 


LA   SOMXANBTTLA.  99 

slept ;  and  then  she  went  through  the  motion  of  setting 
down  the  lamp,  now  rolling  at  the  bottom  of  the  torrent. 

Soon  she  began  talking  of  the  lost  ring — the  ring  he 
had  given  her,  and  had  torn  from  her. 

And  she  broke  up  into  atoms  the  score  of  roses  he  had 
also  given  her  on  that  happy  night,  and  which  she  now 
4ook  from  her  bosom.  Then  again  she  wept  for  the  ring, 
and  felt  on  her  hand  for  it. 

He  still  had  the  ring,  for  he  had  not  hardened  his  heart 
enough  to  put  it  on  Liza's  hand ;  and,  under  the  direction 
of  the  count,  he  quietly  slipped  it  on  the  sleeping  girl's 
finger. 

'Twas  enough. 

Feeling  the  ring  once  again,  she  awoke.  But  ah !  to 
how  much  joy?  The  whole  village  crowding  around  her, 
sorry  for  their  unjust  suspicions,  and  more  desirous  of  get 
ting  a  kind  look  from  her  than  ever;  her  Elvino,  proud 
and  happy,  near  her;  her  dear  old  adopted  mother,  proud 
and  self-satisfied.  Was  it  not  better  as  it  was  —  that  that 
happiness  should  come  after  such  deep  trouble  (which  is 
ofttimes  a  short  cut  to  years  of  joy,)  than  that  the  two 
young  people  should  have  dropped  into  wedlock  after  a 
happy,  unclouded  childhood  and  love,  without  having  had 
a  pang  to  teach  them  the  sweetness  of  peace  and  inno- 
cence. 

As  for  Liza,  the  less  that  is  said  of  that  lady  the  better. 
That  scarf  of  hers  told  terribly  against  her;  and  though 
poor  Alesso  felt  the  blow  terribly,  he  could  hardly  show 
the  remains  of  any  bruise  whatever  to  his  new  love  when 
Liza  left  the  village. 


L'ELISIR  D'AMORE.     (DONIZETTI.) 

THE   ELIXIR   OF   LOVE 


CHAPTER  I. 


IT  is  pleasant  to  see  the  reapers  resting  after  their  work, 
in  the  shadows  of  the  trees.  Indeed,  it  may  be  pleasant 
to  be  a  reaper  reposing.  Yet  a  disappointed,  wretched 
lover  can  find  no  pleasure  in  anything  but  being  misera- 
ble ;  and  lovers,  disappointed  in  love,  do  so  indulge  in 
misery,  that  it  must  be  a  pleasure. 

Nemorino,  the  poor  young  farmer,  was  a  disappointed 
lover,  and  on  one  particular  autumn  evening,  when  the 
reapers  were  sitting  in  the  shadow  of  the  trees,  he  took 
no  notice  of  iliem,  out  kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  Adina, 
who,  on  her  part,  kept  her  eyes  fixed  upon  her  book,  like 
St.  Dunstan  of  old. 

The  fact  is,  Adina  was  a  coquette,  and  no  one  likes 
your  unalterably  attached  man  more  than  a  thorough  co- 
quette. A  coquette  —  that  is,  a  thorough  coquette  — 
never  does  marry  an  unalterably  attached  man.  She 
usually  marries  a  man  who  thinks  just  a  little  more  of  him- 
self than  he  does  of  his  bride,  and  a  coquette  is  happy 
ever  after  in  consequence. 

Well  Adina,  who,  by  the  way,  was  by  no  means  poor, 
lived  in  a  farm-house,  in  the  exact  centre  of  her  farm,  and 
did  nothing  but  what  she  pleased.  And  Adina  ran  very 
considerable  risk  of  marrying  Sergeant  Belcore,  of  the 
attractive  chasseurs ;  and  she  quite  laughed  at  the  atten- 
tions of  Nemorino.  Handsome  ;  yes,  certainly  handsome, 
but  so  stupid,  so  different  to  Sergeant  Belcore. 

See  you,  in  her  heart  of  hearts,  a  coquette  knows  her 
own  inestimable  little  worth,  and  so,  consequently,  she 
cannot  help  despising  a  man  who  thoroughly  believes  in 
her. 


L'ELISIK  D'AMOEK.  101 

On  tliis  particular  evening  she  was  more  contemptuous 
with  respect  to  Nemorino  than  she  had  ever  shown  her- 
self, and  truth  to  tell,  sitting  under  a  tree  reading,  she 
looked,  and  was,  very  pert  indeed. 

She  made  him  jealous  of  her  very  book ;  it  was  such 
an  interesting  book.  Suddenly,  when  the  poor  fellow 
ceased  looking  for  an  instant  — 

"  Ah,  ah !  capital !  Just  listen  :  '  The  beautiful  Tristano 
quite  burned  away  with  love  for  the  cruel  Isotta,  who 
SCORXED  him  (here  she  looked  scornfully  at  Nemorino). 
At  last,  he  found  a  sage,  who  gave  him  a  love-philtre,  and 
after  that,  the  lovely  Isotta  was  continually  following  the 
handsome  Tristano.'  Nonsense!  that  only  proves  that, 
the  lovely  Isotta  was  as  stupid  as  somebody  else  I  know. 
Hark !  there  are  the  drums ;  oh,  delight,  here  comes  the 
sergeant ;  "  and  then  she  looked  wickedly  at  the  disconso- 
late Nemorino. 

Who  was  certainly  very  different  to  "  the  sergeant? 
Nemorino  was  tall,  comely-looking,  flaxen-haired,  and 
ingenuous;  Sergeant  Belcore  was  equally  tall, but  he  was 
more  than  comely-looking.  Such  a  figure  had  Sergeant 
Belcore !  And  Sergeant  Belcore's  moustache,  a  long, 
sweeping  moustache,  which  stood  out  straight  on  each 
side  of  his  face,  in  the  mathematical  manner,  and  was 
as  bright  as  his  splendid  boots.  His  handsome  black 
hair,  too,  was  clipped  short  to  the  pole  of  his  neck ;  and 
altogether,  Sergeant  Belcore  was  very  spruce  indeed  ;  and 
Sergeant  Belcore  knew  it. 

He  thought  he  was  in  love  with  Adina,  but  he  certain- 
ly was  not;  whereof,  in  proof  of  which,  witness  the  nose- 
gay. No  lover  —  really  a  lover — comes  up  as  cool  as  a 
cucumber  to  offer  his  bouquet?  No,  he  suggests  the  flow- 
ers, so  to  speak,  with  many  doubts ;  and  if  it  be  accepted, 
he  don't  twirl  his  moustaches  (if  he  has  any),  as  though 
he  had  done  a  very  admirable  thing. 

All  of  which  conduct  was  Sergeant  Belcore's,  when  he 
stepped  cavaliei'ly  up  to  the  maiden.  As  for  Nemorino, 
poor  fellow,  he  looked  more  lone,  dismal,  and  ridiculous 
than  before. 

"  O,  country  nymph,  I  present  this  nosegay  to  you,  as 
Paris  did  the  apple,  because  you  are  the  loveliest." 


102  TALES   PROM    THE    OPERAS. 

"  Ah,  ah,  ah !  very  good." 

Nemorino  sighs. 

"  And  I  see  clearly  I've  carried  your  heart  by  storm. 
Well,  well,  no  girl  can  withstand  a  red  coat." 

"  Ah,  ah,  ah !  very  good,  sergeant." 

"Ah,  me ! "  sighed  the  love-born  swain. 

"Well,  pretty  one,  if  your  love  equals  mine,  let's  ground 
arms  —  capitulate  ;  on  what  day  will  you  marry  me  ?  " 

"Ah,  ah,  ah!  very  good,  Sergeant  Belcore." 

"  Come  —  come  —  come  —  here's  the  conqueror." 

"  Sergeant,  sergeant,  you  storm  too  soon.  Who  should 
cry  victory  before  the  battle  has  begun?  And  besides,  1 
am  Adina." 

"  I  wish,"  thought  the  poor  stiicken  lover,  "  I  could 
talk  as  bravely  as  the  sergeant." 

"  Well  well,  as  sure  as  I've  a  military  moustache,  I'll 
not  desert  the  post." 

"  Spoken  like  a  brave  sergeant.  But,  in  the  meantime, 
may  I  offer  you  something  to  eat  ?  " 

"  I'm  one  of  the  family  already,"  thought  the  sergeant ; 
BO  he  said,  "  If  you  sit  at  the  same  table." 

"  Ah,  ah,  ah !  very  good,  Sergeant  Belcore.  Go  in,  go 
in." 

She  saw  Nemorino  was  coming  up  to  speak  to  her. 

"One  little  word,  Adina." 

"  Oh,  two  little  words  for  Nemorino.  The  usual  sighs, 
though  he  had  much  better  go  and  see  his  uncle,  who  is 
ill  —  they  say  very  ill." 

"  He  is  not  so  sick  as  I  am,  Adina." 

"  And,  then,  if  his  uncle  dies,  he'll  make  somebody  else 
his  heir." 

"  What  does  that  matter  to  me,  Adina?" 

"And  then  he'll  die  of  hunger  and  misery j"  addressee 
generally  to  the  surrounding  landscape. 

"Either  of  hunger  or  love,  what  matters  it,  Adina?" 

"  Well,  well,  lie  is  modest,  which  Sergeant  Belcore 
certainly  is  NOT.  This  Nemorino  don't  presume,  and  I 
never  shall  love  him." 

"  But  why  —  why,  Adina  ?  " 

"  He  might  as  well  ask  yie  wind  why  it  loveth  to  go 
this  way  or  that,  over  brook  or  field." 


L  ELISIR   D  AMORE.  103 

"Then  I  ought?" 

"  Then  he  ought  to  think  no  more  about  me." 

"But  I  cannot,  Aclina." 

"But  why?" 

"  You  might  as  well  ask  the  river  why  it  flows  to  th6 
sea." 

"  Ah,  I  see ;  because  he  must !  " 

"Even  as  the  river  floweth  onwards  to  the  sea,  I'll 
follow  Adina." 

"Ah,  ah,  ah!" 

And  with  this  general  winding  up  of  her  interviews 
with  the  luckless  youth,  she  ran  in,  and  clapped  to  the 
little  door. 


CHAPTER  II. 

ONE  hour  later  and  everybody  in  the  market  place  was 
opening  his  or  her  eyes,  as  widely  open  he  or  she  could. 
For  with  a  great  blowing  of  trumpets,  and  other  unusual 
sounds,  came  such  a  visitor ! 

In  a  carriage,  too  —  not  an  ordinary  carriage,  but  a  gilt 
carriage.  Not  a  mean  covered-in  carriage,  like  a  van,  but 
a  fine  open  carriage,  with  such  a  gentleman  sitting  within 
it.  One  had  to  look  twice  before  he  could  comprehend 
him  —  he  was  so  grand.  His  waistcoat  was  a  fair  field, 
and  his  forehead  a  great  plain.  But  as  for  his  legs,  to 
what  shall  th<  y  be  compared  ?  The  legs  of  Jupiter  him- 
self, or  perhaps  Hercules  !  Yet  he  had  a  benignant  face, 
this  new  comer,  and  he  seemed  to  know  he  should  bo 
welcome. 

Who  was  he  —  a  lord,  a  prince  ? 

And  who  was  his  trumpeter  behind,  blowing  a  tri- 
umphal march? 

All  the  people  gathered  round  this  wonderful  being 
with  open-mouthed  respect.  Then  this  great  man  con- 
descended to  step  from  his  grand  carriage  .and  address 
the  villagers,  as  his  carriage  and  his  trumpeter  stopped 
together.  * 


104  TALES   FROM   TIIE   OPERAS. 

••Listen,  listen,  listen  —  oh  !  oh  !  you  rustics  all 
Listen,  listen,  listen,  or  great  and  small. 
I  am,  I  am,  I  am  the  greatest  of  great  men  ! 
For  I  can  fright  away  the  greatest  oldest  wen  ! 
I,  present  now, 
Who  make  a  bow, 
Am  Doctor  Dulcamara. 
In  France  I'm  known, 
The  French  will  own, 
In  Venice  and  Ferrara. 
Such  things  I've  done, 
That  more  than  one 
Have  said  I  am  —  no  matter  ; 
But  this  I  know, 
Where'er  I  go, 
I  make  no  little  clatter. 

"  Listen,  listen,  listenevery  one  that's  here. 

If  amongst  you  any's  dying,  let  him  no  longer  fear. 

I'll  cure  her,  or  I'll  cure  him,  with  physic  quite  divine  — 

In  fact,  you  wouldn't  know  it  from  very  nice  sweet  wine. 

Apoplexy 

Need  not  vex  ye, 

If  unto  Dulcamara, 

With  rapid  run, 

You  straightway  come. 

And  as  for  those  with  asthma, 

If  they  but  drink, 

I'm  sure  they'll  think 

They  need  not  drink  much  longer 

If  they're  too  weak 

Almost  to  speak, 
Quick — presto  —  they'll  be  stronger. 

"  Oh  !  listen,  listen,  listen.     If  any  one  has  gout, 
Oh  !  let  him  buy  a  bottle,  and  let  him  drink  it  out. 
As  for  tooth-ache, 
But  one  sip  take, 

You'd  think  no  more  of  that  tooth. 
And  as  to  age, 
I  do  engage, 

Two  sips  will  bring  back  your  youth 
Oh  !  yes  I  am, 
Your'e  sure  I  am, 
Great  Doctor  Dulcamara 
In  France  he's  known, 
His  fame  has  grown 
In  Venice  and  Ferrara. 


L'ELism  D'AMORE.  105 

"  Oh  !  listen,  listen,  listen.     No  doubt  you  think  'tis  dear. 
Oh  !  rustics,  rustics,  rustics,  of  that  now  have  no  fear. 
A  hundred  pounds ! 
A  hundred  crowns  ! 
A  bottle  I  don't  ask  you ! 
Oh  !  yes  —  oh  !  yes, 
The  price  now  guess. 
To  guess  high,  i  don't  ask  you. 
Well,  half-a-crown, 
Just  lay  it  down. 

Ah  !  ah  ?  my  friend,  health  bless  yon. 
All  doctors  pale, 
Before  me  fail, 
1  only  can  redress  you. 

Come  buy,  come  buy  —  oh  !  rustics,  that's  if  you'd  be  well  J 
Your  duty  is  to  purchase  —  my  duty  is  to  —  sell" 

Now  amongst  the  "  nasties  "  who  had  heard  this  rery 
eulogistic  patter,  was  Nemorino ;  and  this  youth,  biting 
the  rim  of  his  rustic  hat,  struck  himself  with  the  idea  that 
the  doctor  could  cure  people  of  want  of  love. 

"  Sir  doctor,  pardon  me,  do  you  know  many  secrets?" 

"  Secrets,  rustic,  I'm  all  secrets." 

"  My  faith !  Well,  have  you,  by  chance,  the  love  drink 
of  Queen  Isotta  ?  " 

"  Hu-u-m.     Well,  well,  well,  rustic." 

"  The  real  love-drink  that  awakens  love  ?  " 

'  Ah  !  I'm  the  only  brewer  of  it." 

"  And  —  and  do  you  sell  it  ?  " 

"  To  those  who  can  afford  to  buy  it,  rustic." 

"  Good  doctor,  and  what  is  the  charge  ?  " 

"Well —  hum  — well!" 

"  I've  half-a-dozen  crowns." 

"  I'  faith,  you've  hit  it." 

Then  the  doctor  went  to  his  gilt  carnage,  and  brought 
out  something  singularly  like  a  small  wine-bottle. 

"I'  faith,"  said  the  stout  doctor,  taking  the  crowns, 
"  you  will  be  cured  if  you  drink  that." 

UF  faith  (this  to  himself,)  fools  there  are  'neath  the 
sun ; 

A  fool,  yet  none  the  less  a  brother  —  this  one." 

"  Oh,  but  doctor,  how  am  I  to  manage?" 

"  Ah,  I  forgot,  young  rustic. 
6* 


106  TALES   FROM   THE   OPERAS. 

««  Now  with  great  care, 
In  weather  fair, 
The  bottle  must  be  taken  ; 
Then  up  and  down, 
Mind,  do  not  frown, 
The  bottle  must  be  shaken ! 
Pulled  out  the  cork 
Per  screw  or  fork, 
The  bottle  to  your  lips,  oh, 
You  then  must  place, 
And  —  no  grimace, 
The  potion  drink  in  sips,  oh." 

u  Yes,  yes,  young  man,  this  is  the  real  elixir  of  love ! " 

(And  perhaps  it  was,  for  'twas  good  Bordeaux.) 

"  And  young  rustic,  don't  take  it  till  to-morrow.  (By 
that  time  I  shall  be  gone.)" 

"  Oh,  good  doctor ! " 

"  I'  faith  (to  himself  again,)  fools  there  are  'neath  the 
sun; 

A  fool,  yet  none  the  less  a  brother  —  this  one.  And 
mind,  young  rustic.  A  word  in  your  ear.  Silence,  silence/ 
'Tis  dangerous  to  sell  love-potions  now-a-days.  I  don't 
speak  for  myself,  young  rustic,  for  jT'm  the  great  Dulca- 
mara, famed  in  Venice  and  Ferrara ;  but  for  your  sake, 
young  rustic  —  ah !  ah !  all  the  women  in  the  place  will 
be  dying  for  you.  To-morrow,  mind.  Good  bye  young 
rustic,  good  bye." 

And  the  worthy  doctor  vanished  through  the  doorway 
of  the  village  inn. 

"  Faith,"  said  the  lover  to  himself,  no  longer  in  a  dis- 
consolate tone,  "  a  good  thing  is  a  good  thing  to-day  as 
well  as  to-morrow.  And  'tis  fair  weather,  for  am  I  not 
sitting  down  here  with  my  elixir  of  love  ?  And  the  bright 
sky  above  me.  Good !  I  will ! "  Pop  !  'tis  the  cork. 
"  Ah,  ah !  good !  another  sip.  Good !  —  another." 

"  La,  la,  la,  la,  la,  ra,  ra." 

w  Good !     Good !  yet  another ;  and  another  sip." 

"  La,  la,  la,  la,  la,  ra,  ree." 

"  Can  I  believe  my  eyes ;  why  'tis  Nemorino  singing 
Actually  Nemorino  singing.     Ah,  ah ! " 

"'Tis  she!  I  shall  go  to  her!  No;  why  should  7"  go  to 
her  ?  Let  her  come  to  me.  La,  la,  la.  La,  la,  la.  For 


L'ELISHJ  D'AMOBE.  107 

to-morrow;  yes  to-morrow.  They'll  be  sighing  at  my 
feet ! " 

"He  doesn't  even  look  at  me!  ah,  ah!"  Rather  a 
louder  "  ah,  ah ! "  than  the  first. 

"  La,  la,  la,  re,  ra,  ra,  ra.    Aie,  aie,  aie,  eie,  ah  ! " 

«  'Tis  all  put  on !  " 

"  She's  very  clearly  not  in  love  with  me  yet.  La,  la,  la, 
re,  ra,  ra,  ra.  Aie,  aie,  eie,  ah ! " 

"  It  MUST  be  put  on !  Good  evening,  Nemorino.  "Very 
good.  You're  taking  my  advice.  You're,  you're  quite 
merry  I " 

«  True ;  I  like  this  new  life." 

"  Then  your  sighs,  and  your  sobs,  and  your  tears ! " 

"  La,  la,  la," 

«  Silence,  sir." 

"  Re,  ra,  ra,  ra," 

"  How  dare  you ! "  ^ 

"  Aie,  aie,  aie,  eie,  a,  a,  le." 

"  Very  good." 

"  Oh !  I  shall  be  heart- whole  to-morrow." 

"  Indeed !  we  shall  see !  We  shall  see ! "  The  second 
"we  shall  see  "  very  low  and  confidential. 

Then  came  a  voice  from  the  inn,  which  cried, 

"  Tran,  tran,  tran, 
In  love  or  in  war  ; 
Tran,  tran,  tran, 
You  ne'er  saw  before  ; 
Tran,  tran,  tran, 
A  Sergeant  Belcore  ; 
Tran,  tran,  tran, 
A  Sergeant  Belcore." 

"  Ah !  here  comes  that  admirable  sergeant.  Ah,  ser- 
geant ;  is  that  you  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  dear  heart  of  stone  ! " 

"Stone!  oh  no." 

"  Sound  to  the  assault,  sergeant.  Now,  tell  me ;  when 
shall  we  be  married  ?" 

"  We-e-e-1-1-1  —  Perhaps  s-o-o-o-o-n." 

"Ah!" 

"  He  started,"  said  Adina  in  a  low  voice.  "  Don?t  pull 
your  moustaches,  sergeant,"  said  she  in  a  louder  voice. 


108  TALES   FROM    THE    OPERAS. 

K  Always  obey  orders  ;  well,  in  six  days  ?  " 

«  Wei  -1-i-l  —  Per-hap-p-p-s." 

"  Victory,  victory.     As  sure  as  I'm  a  sergeant ! " 

"  Ah,  all,  ah,  ah,  ah  !  "  laughed  Nemorino. 

"  Oh,  oh !  he's  actually  laughing."  And  somebody  was 
almost  crying. 

"  What's  that  donkey  laughing  at?"  shouted  the  ser- 
geant. "  If  he  don't  retreat  I  shall  charge  him." 

"  Oh,  I  —  could  —  bite  —  my  —  fingers  —  off —  with  — 
rage — he  —  don't  — seem  —  to — care — in — the — least? 

"Ah,  ah!"  thought  the  donkey;  "wait  till  to-morrow, 
brave  sergeant ;  wait  till  to-morrow !  " 

"  Tr-r-r-m,  Tr-r-r-m,  Tr-r-r-m." 

"Hallo!   hallo!     What's  that?" 

"  Sergeant ; "  here  there  was  a  military  salute  from  a 
soldier.  "Despatch," 

With  a  fierce  twirl  of  his  moustaches,  "  sergeant " 
opened  the  paper.  "  Hum  !  we  march  to-morrow." 

"Oh,  dear!'1''  cried  several  young  girls  together.  And 
there  was  a  general  impression  that  a  shifting  garrison  was 
a  national  wrong. 

"  Con-n-nfound  it,"  said  the  sergeant ;  "  and  my  mar- 
riage." 

"  Yes,  yes !  to-morrow,  my  friend,"  again  thought  Ne- 
morino. 

"  Oh  !  I  shall  not  forget  you,  sergeant ! " 

"Forget!  Peste  !  Hu-m-u-m,  Aclina  —  why  can't  we  be 
married  to-day  ?  " 

"  He — seems —  moved  —  now ;  in  —  fact — he — seems 
—  quite  —  frightened  ;  "  thought  the  little  coquette. 

"To-day;"  thought  rustic  Nemorino,  "to-day  —  if 
they're  married  to-day  there  will  be  no  to-morrow  — and 
the  elixir  of  love  —  will  be  useless!  " 

"  We-1-1-1  sergeant.     Y-y-y-es ;  to-day ! " 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no ;  Adina.     Wait  till  to-morrow." 

"Ah,  ah!" 

"You  cannot  marry  him;  because,  I  —  I  —  I  —  know 
why ! " 

"  Oo-r-r-r-rpodi  Bacco  " 

"  You  can't,  Adina.  You'll  be  sorry  if  you  do.  Don't, 
don't  marry  him  till  to-morrow." 


L'ELISIR  D'AMORE.  109 

"  Begone,  booby ;  or  I  strangle  you  ! " 

"  Sergeant,  pray  take  no  notice  of  the  poor  fellow. 
Half-witted,  sergeant.  He  thought;  ah,  ah  !  thought  I 
should  —  should  love  him.  Oh  —  the — ridiculous  —  crea- 
ture. He  thought !  I'll  be  revenged  on  him,"  she  said  to 
herself.  "  How  dared  he  to  sing  before  me.  He  shall 
fall  at  my  feet  in  penitence  before  I'll  have  a  word  to  say 
to  him." 

And  all  the  girls  about  said,  "  the  idea  !  a  common  hus- 
bandman to  dare  to  be  the  rival  of  a  sergeant  in  the  army ; 
the  idea  !  " 

"  Come,  sergeant." 

"  The  notary ;  corpo  di  Bacco ;  the  notary." 

"  Yea,  yes  ;  sergeant,  come." 

"Doctor,  doctor,"  shrieked  out  Nemorino.  "Doctor, 
help !  quick  !  help,  doctor ! " 

"  Now,  then  ;  all  of  you  there  ;  fall  in ;  march." 

And  away  they  all  went  to  see  sergeant  Belcore  mar- 
ried to  Adina  the  coquette. 

Leaving  Nemorino  the  rustic  to  call  for  the  doctor  at 
his  leisure. 


CHAPTER  III. 

they  all  got  to  the  great  room  in  Adina's  farm- 
house, they  quite  filled  it.  Well,  there  they  were,  look- 
ing out  for  the  notary.  Adina,  too,  was  looking  out  for 
Nemorino,  for  she  had  a  faint  fear  she  had  gone  a  little 
too  far. 

Even  an  invitation  from  Doctor  Dulcamara,  who  \vaa 
there,  to  sing  a  song,  did  not  cheer  her ;  and  not  even  the 
song  itself,  though  she  sang  it  very  well,  gave  her  any 
consolation. 

"  Here  comes  the  NOTARY." 

"  Bravo,  bravo,  bravo,1'  said  the  doctor. 

Out  of  respect  to  the  notary,  all  the  neighbors  withdrew 
to  the  lawn  outside.  And  also  out  of  respect  to  the  no- 
tary, he  was  shown  into  the  best  room ;  so  only  the  doc- 
tor remained  in  the  hall.  And  only  for  a  moment  too, 
for  Nemorino  came  rushing  in. 


110  TALES  FUOM  THE  OPEBAS. 

"  Oh,  doctor ;  here  you  are.  Nay,  don't  run  away,  doc- 
tor." For  that  stout  man  was  certainly  trying  to  effect 
an  escape. 

"  Doctor,  I  must  be  loved  now,  at  once ;  to-morrow  will 
be  no  good." 

"  I  'faith,  fools  there  are,  'neath  the  sun,  a  fool,  yet  none 
the  less  a  brother — this  one.  By  Bacchus,  he's  mad! 
Take  the  elixir,  sir." 

"  Sir,  I  have," 

"  Then  take  another  dose." 

"  Give  me  another  bottle." 

"  Good ;  but  first  give  me  your  money." 

"  Money  —  money, — I  have  none." 

"  Well,  well,  well,  my  young  rustic.  Come  to-morrow, 
or,  get  some ;  and  ask  for  me  at  the  inn  as  soon  as  you 
like.  Good  night,  good  night."  And  the  doctor  seemed 
rather  glad  to  shuffle  off,  losing  thereby,  the  feast  to  which 
he  had  been  bidden. 

"-Ah,  me  !  "  sighed  the  youth,  flinging  down  on  a  seat. 

"  Heigh  o !  women  are  an  awkward  lot,  as  sure  as  my 
name's  Belcore,"  said  the  sergeant,  sauntering  in.  "Of 
course  she  loves  me,  and  yet  she  will  wait  till  this  eve- 
ning for  the  marriage.  Hullo !  hullo !  rustic,  what's  the 
matter  ?  " 

"  I  want  money,  and  it  seems  I  may  want  it." 

"  Well,  you're  a  fine  fellow ;  enlist,  and  you'll  have 
twenty  crowns." 

"  Twenty  !  did  you  say  twenty  crowns,  Mr.  Sergeant  ?  " 

"  Look !  here  — jingle,  jingle  —  here  they  are.  And 
glory,  and  honor  —  and  love  —  the  soldier  need  never 
sigh." 

"  Twenty  crowns  ?  " 

"  Tw-w-wenty  crowns ! " 

"  Done ! " 

"Here,  just  sign  this  paper.  Good;  take  your  money. 
You'll  soon  be  a  corporal,  if  you  look  up  to  me." 

"Ha!  ha!  oh!  oh!"  laughed  the  sergeant,  " I've  en- 
listed my  rival ;  oh !  oh  !  a  good  tale  to  tell." 

And  he  swaggered  off,  while  Nemorino  rushed  away  to 
buy  bottle  number  two. 


L'EUSIR  D'AMORE.  Ill 


CHAPTER  IV. 

EVERT  woman  then  and  there  in  the  market-place  was 
full  of  it,  and  crowded  about  each  other  to  hear  and  re- 
ceive the  news.  "Did  you  ever!"  —  "Oh!  quite  true!" 

—  "  Who  would  have  thought  it,  you  know  ?  "  —  "  Yea 
but  who  told  you  ?  "  —  "  Hush  !  not  so  loud." —  "  It's  a  se- 
cret."—  "  Oh,  of  course ! " —  cried  twenty  voices  at  least. 
"Because,  Theard  it  from  the  young  grocer  (She  always 
hears  every  thing  from  the  young  grocer)  who  heard  it 
from  the  mercer,  who  had  it  from  the  lawyer  himself;  and 
so  you  know  then  it  is." —  "  Oh,  of  course ;  well,  I'm  sure 
I  should  never  have  thought  it." — • "  And  such  a  fortune." 

—  "  Why,  he's  the  richest  man  in  the  parish."  —  "I  wish  / 
had  a  rich  old  uncle." —  "  Yes,  and  he  never  went  to  see 
him."—  "All  through  that  Adina."  —  "  Eagh !  "  —  "  There 
he  is ! "     (Twenty  voices  again.) 

"  He  "  was  Nemorino.  "  He  "  had  run  to  the  doctor, 
who  again  fraudulently  appropriated  the  crowns ;  again 
"  he  "  had  imbibed  the  elixir  of  love,  and  this  time  he  real- 
ly hoped  the  elixir  would  have  some  effect. 

"  How  humble  he  looks." 

"  He  don't  know  his  good  fortune  yet." 

"  Good  evening  to  your  curls,  Nemorino,"  said  one. 

"  Good  evening,  and  a  curtsey  to  your  heart,  Nemorino," 
cried  another. 

"  Good  evening,  and  a  smile,  Nemorino,"  exclaimed  a 
third. 

"  Your  humble  servant,  siguor,"  said  a  mean  fourth. 

"TiiE  ELIXIR!" 

"You'll  forget  your  old  playmates  now,  signer." 

" Oil !  no,  Nemorino  is  too  amiable" 

"  Your  humble  servant,  signer." 

«  THE  ELIXIR." 

Here  two  persons  coming  stopped  in  the  utmost  won- 
der to  sec  Nemorino,  the  rustic,  in  the  midst  of  a  group 
of  girls.  One  person  was  the  enormous  Doctor  Dulcama- 
ra, and  the  other  person  was  the  far  from  enormous  Adina. 

"  Bless  me  !  "  said  Adina  to  herself. 


112  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

Nemorino  ran  up  to  the  doctor,  and  whispered  —  "You 
were  right,  the  elixir  this  time  was  stronger" 

"Can  ...  I  ...  believe  .  .  .  ray  .  .  .  senses?"  ex- 
claimed Dulcamara.  Then  he  said  to  the  women  —  "  Does 
he  please  you  ?  " 

"  The  insolence  of  that  doctor ! "  all  the  girls  seemed  to 
say  with  t.heir  little  noses  in  the  air. 

"  Can  —  I  —  believe.  Am  I  the  proprietor  of  the  love 
philtre  ? "  For  we  may  tell  lies  till  we  actually  believe 
them  ourselves. 

"  Well,"  thought  the  rustic  to  himself,  "if  every  girl 
loves  me,  she  ought." 

"  And  I  thought  to  find  him  in  tears,  and  if  he  still 
loved  me,  he  would  be,"  thought  Adina. 

"  You'll  dance,  Nemorino." 

"  Yes,  Gianetta,  with  you." 

"  With  me,  your  humble  obedient  servant,  signor,  too." 

"  Yes,  yes." 

"With  yow,  indeed !  Ah,  ah.  Very  good."  And  here 
the  pretty  noses  were  brought  into  action  again. 

«  Can  —  I  —  bel  — .    I  DON'T." 

"Ne — ne — ne— ne — mo — ri — no  ! " 

«  THE  ELIXIR.     She  comes !  " 

"  Can  —  I  —  I  CAN'T,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  So,  for  a  few  poor  crowns,  you've  become  soldier,  Ne- 
morino.  I  must  speak  to  you,"  said  Adina. 

"  Nemorino ! " 

«  Well,  Gianetta." 

"  Hark !  there's  the  music.  And  you  know  you  prom- 
ised me." 

"  True,  true,  I'm  coming.  I'll  hear  you  presently, 
Adina.  Coining,  Gianetta,  coming." 

Scene  —  a  despairing  little  woman  pressing  her  little 
hands  one  within  the  other.  And  whether  anybody  is 
there  she  cares  not,  as  she  says  in  a  whisper,  "  I  love  him, 
I  do  love  him." 

Says  Doctor  Dulcamara.  "Can  —  I — no  believe  my 
senses.  "  Ah,  ah !  I'm  a  gold  mine.  I'm  a  Croesus  !  " 

"Ah,  ah,  ah!"  cried  a  quick,  sharp  voice,  the  personal 
property  of  Gianetta  in  fact.  And  as  she  went  oft*  to  the 
dance,  audacious  with  Nemorino.  "  Ah,  ah,  ah,  she  thinks 


L'ELISIB  DAMORB.  113 

she's  to  have  the  homage  of  all  the  men  in  the  village,  but 
she  WONT." 

"  She  ''  heard  the  remark,  but  it  did  not  make  her  an- 

gry- 

"  How  cruel,  how  cruel !  " 

"Ah  !  all  my  doings." 

"Yours,  doctor." 

"Yes,  I  have  Queen  Isotta's  love  secret!" 

"Queen — n — IsottcCs!  I  won't  believe  it.  And  you 
gave  it  to  Nemorino  !  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  To  try  it  on  some  cruel  fair,  who  would 
have  naught  to  say  to  him." 

"Ah,  then  he  was  in  love  with  —  some  one." 

"  Yes,  the  poor  fellow ;  and  to  get  money  for  Queen 
Isotta's  secret,  he  enlisted." 

"  The  poor  youth  !  " 

"  'Tis  my  impression  she  would  buy  elixir  herself,"  said 
the  doctor  to  himself. 

"And  now,  Nemorino  is  fortunate  in  love?" 

"  There's  not  a  girl  but  —  here,  just  look  at  them.  This 
way ! " 

"  And  who  is  he  in  love  with  ?  " 

"  Faith,  I  know  not,  but  they  are  all  in  love  with  him? 

"  And  once  I  know  he  only  loved  me" 

"  The  elixir  is  not  dear.  Think !  you  might  have  a  hun- 
dred lovers  at  your  feet ! " 

"  I'd  not  know  what  to  do  with  them.  I  —  I  only  wish 
but  oner 

"  And  every  woman  in  the  place  would  hate  you." 

«  What  are  they  to  me !  " 

"  Or  if  you'd  marry  a  rich  man." 

"I'm  rich  enough  already." 

"  A  count,  a  marquis." 

"Good,  if  named  Nemorino." 

"  And  my  philtre !  " 

"You  may  swallow  it  yourself." 

"  I  rather  think  Adina  knows  a  good  deal  more  than  I. 
But  I  also  think  Adina  for  all  girls  don't  reply." 

"  He  shall  come  back  to  me,"  said  the  little  woman  to 
herself,  "  he  shall,  he  shall !  A  look,  a  smile,  a  little  frown, 
and  he  is  at  my  feet.  For  I  have  the  elixir,  here,  in  my 
face,  here,  in  my  eyes." 


114  TALES   FUOM   TIIK   OPERAS. 

And  away  she  went  to  find  Nernorino.  If  she  had  only 
looked  behind  her  now.  For  there  lie  was ;  and  as  she 
fluttered  away,  he  came  a  few  steps  forward. 

As  a  clear  evidence  how  fond  he  was  of  her  in  this,  that 
he  was  sorry  he  had  gone  away  with  Gianetta,  perchance 
the  mercenary.  Indeed,  he  thought  he  had  marked  a  fur- 
tive tear  or  so  in  Adina's  eyes ;  and,  very  softly,  he  thought 
to  — 

"  O,  Nemorino  !  what,  left  the  dancing?" 

"  Yes,  I  was  tired." 

"What,  and  left  Gianetta?" 

"  Yes ;  for  I  was  tired  of  her,  too.  You  see,  when  a 
poor  youth  is  loved  by  all  the  girls,  he  need  not  care  for 
one  only.  Heigh o  !  they  all  want  to  marry." 

"Well,  they  can't  all  marry  you;  and  what  do  you 
say?" 

"I don't  know." 

"  Now  listen  to  me,"  said  the  maiden,  coming  up  close 
to  him. 

"  Well,  Adina  (she's  going  to  confess.)  " 

"  Why  —  why  are  you  going  to  leave  us  ?  Why  are 
you  going  away  for  a  soldier  ?  " 

"  Going  to  seek  my  fortune,  Adina." 

"  But  —  but  we  all  like  you  here.  And  —  and  we  should 
aU  be  so  sorry  to  part  with  you.  And  —  and  "  (here  the 
little  right  hand  went  to  the  little  natty  apron-pocket,  and 
brought  out  a  paper.)  "  And  —  and  I've  bought  your  dis- 
charge" 

"  Ha !  you  love  me ! " 

"Love  you?  We  all  love  you  —  like  you.  There, 
take  the  paper.  And  pray  keep  amongst  us.  I  dare  say 
you  will  find  somebody  you  can  faU  head  over  ears  in  love 
wi'h  ;  for  I'm  sure  we  all  like  you.  Good  bye." 

"But  this  isn't  confessing !" 

"  Good  bye,  Nemorino." 

"  But  —  but  you're  not  going  like  that ! " 

"  Why,  what  more  can  you  want  ?  you  have  your  dis- 
charge. Good  bye,  Nernorino." 

"  Oh,  good  bye ;  only  you  have  forgotten  something." 

"Indeed— what?" 

"The  discharge.     Take  it    I  shall  remain  a  soldier 


L'ELISIR  D'AMORE.  115 

For  the  doctor  has  deceived  me  ;  and  —  and  —  God  bless 
you,  and  good  bye,  Adina." 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no,  no.  He  has  not  deceived  you.  I  —  I 
want  to  make  you  as  happy  as  I  have  made  you  wretched. 
I  —  I  know  you  love  me,  and  —  and  I  LOVE  YOU  WITH  ALL 

MY  HEART ! " 

"  THE  ELIXIR  ! " 

"  Hi !  hi !  hi !  what's  this  ?  what's  this  ?  Can  Sergeant 
Belcore  believe  his  handsome  eyes ! " 

"  If  he  can't,  he  must  believe  Adina's  tongue.  My  hus- 
band, Sergeant  Belcore." 

"  Your  husband,  ma'am ;  your  husband  !  Keep  him. 
Sergeant  Belcore  won't  break  his  heart  for  one  woman." 

"  Ah  !  but  one  Sergeant  Belcore  would  break  the  hearts 
of  a  thousand  women.  Let  him  buy  the  elixir  of  love,  ten 
crowns  a  bottle.  I,  Doctor  Dulcamara,  only  sell  it.  Who 
subdued  the  sweet  Adina  ?  I,  Doctor  Dulcamara,  did  ! " 

K  Cursed  mountebank !  may  you  and  your  coach  fall 
into  the  next  ditch." 

"  He !  he !  he !  she  only  marries  him  because  his  rich 
uncle  is  dead."  This  was  the  malicious  remark  of  Gian- 
etta. 

For  one  moment  Adina  drew  away. 

The  next  moment  Nemorino  drew  closer  to  Adina. 

Adina  did  not  withdraw. 

"And  pray,  who  made  him  die?" 

"  Why,  rustics  all,  'twas  I." 

"  Oh  !  listen,  rustics,  listen,  if  cither  has  an  uncle, 
Almost  dead  with  —  say  lumbago,  phythsics,  or  carbuncle, 
I'll  kill  him,  or  I'll  cure  him,  precisely  as  you  say  ; 
But  this  way,  or  the  other,  my  friends,  you'll  have  to  pay, 

"  I.  present,  now, 
Who  make  this  bow, 
Am  Doctor  Dulcamara. 
In  France  I'm  known, 
I'm  famed  alone, 
In  Venice  and  Ferrara 
Such  things  I've  done, 
That  more  than  one, 
Have  said  I  am  —  no  matter  ; 
But  this  I  know, 
Where'er  I  go, 
I  make  no  little  clatter. 


116  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

"  Oh  .  rustics,  rustics,  rustics,  if  e'er  you  would  grow  fat, 
To  purchase  these  my  bottles  'tis  the  best  thing  to  be  at, 
\V  omeu  —  ye  maidens  who'd  in  the  waist  be  thin, 
Try  one  bottle;  'tis  far  better  than  lacing  yourselves  in. 

You  soldiers,  there, 

Who  court  the  fair, 

I  pray  you  make  one  trial. 

Why,  sure  as  fate, 

Sure  as  I'm  great, 

You'll  ignore  the  word  denial 

Thank  you;  and  you, 

Four  crowns,  'twill  do. 

I  am  great  Dulcamara, 

But  two  ?  take  three  ! 

Cash  hand  to  me  ! 

I'm  famed  in  Carrara. 

•'  Oh,  every  one,  or  old,  or  young,  at  you  of  middle  age, 
To  do  all  things  —  1  don't  care  what  —  I  doctor  do  engage. 
Grow  rich,  j*row  poor,  grow  young,  grow  old,  I'm  Doctor  Dulcamara, 
Famed  north,  famed  south,  and  as  I've  said,  I  think,  in  for  Carrara. 

"  You  want  a  head  ; 
No  sooner  said, 

Than  done  —  if  I'm  your  doctor. 
Your  skin,  I  ween, 
I'll  color  green 

Or  make  you  look  a  Chocktaw. 
But  mind  you  all, 
Both  great  and  small, 
Don't  draw  away  afraid,  oh  ! 
The  money  bring 
For  every  thing, 
Dulcamara  must  be  paid,  oh  !  " 

And  after  this  happy  conclusion,  who  shall  say  there  is 
not  some  virtue  in  the  ELIXIR  OF  LOVE. 


IL  BARBIERE  DI  SIVIGLIA.     (ROSSINI). 

THE  BARBER  OF  SEVILLE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  barber,  Figaro,  was,  in  his  way,  a  blessing. 

I  don't  mean  to  say  for  one  moment  that  he  was  at  all 
equal  to  any  one  benison  uttered  by  any  one  ecclesiastic 
in  the  quaint  old  city  of  Seville ;  yet  I  do  assert,  and 
plainly,  he  was  a  blessing  —  Figaro,  barber  and  bleeder  of 
Seville. 

For,  besides  being  a  barber,  a  Spanish  barber,  Figaro 
was  a  bleeder ;  and  in  Figaro's  days,  barbers  were  of  in- 
finitely more  importance  than  they  are  now. 

Ah !  and  Figaro  was  also  a  postman  ;  but,  I  grieve  to 
say,  he  never  delivered  letters  with  double  knocks ;  indeed, 
the  only  percussions  at  all  in  these  matters  arose  between 
the  hearts  and  the  ribs  of  those  to  whom  the  billets 
d'amour  were  delicately  addressed. 

On  the  whole,  however,  I  do  NOT  think  Figaro  was  the 
pattern  of  a  moral  man.  But,  dear  me,  you  must  pick  up 
your  bread  where  you  can  find  it  in  Seville,  and  Seville 
never  was,  and  never  will  be,  a  highly  moral  centre. 

Well,  then,  you  will  please  to  understand  that  Figaro  was 
ubiquitous  (so  to  speak,)  clever,  ready-witted,  a  good  bar- 
ber, a  good  bleeder,  a  good  musician,  and  a  not  over  scru- 
pulous Spaniard. 

But,  in  the  affair  of  the  Count  Almaviva,  everything 
was  strictly  moral  and  proper.  The  count  was  madly  in 
love  with  Rosina,  and  desired  her  for  his  countess ;  but, 
alas  !  Rosina  was  an  imprisoned  flower,  and  she  spelt  her 
jailor's  name  thus  :  —  g-u-a-r-d-i-a-n. 

Well,  well ;  the  count  adored  Rosina,  though  where  he 
first  made  her  acquaintance,  tradition  sayeth  not. 


118  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

But  this  is  certain,  he  came  one  night,  as  usual,  to  sere- 
nade this  dark  beauty,  who  was  close  shut  up  in  her  guar- 
dian's dark  old  house.  Her  darkness  was  delicious,  but 
the  darkness  of  that  old  house  was  abominable.  There 
was,  however,  a  balcony  to  it,  and  to  that  balcony  the 
poor  Rosina  would  fly  whenever  she  could. 

On  this  night,  too,  the  count  did  not  serenade  alone ; 
he  had  with  him  quite  a  crowd  of  serenaders,  delighted  to 
serve  a  man  of  his  quality.  And,  truth  to  tell,  he  and  his 
crowd  played  their  best  music,  and  not  a  sign  was  there 
from  the  house.  But  the  day  itself  advancing,  the  crowd 
was  dismissed,  and  the  count  stood  alone,  happily  unhap- 
py, near  the  door  of  the  enchantress's  guardian's  horrid 
house. 

He  was  still  pensively  watching,  when  by  came  Figaro. 
Never  mind  upon  what  errand  he  had  been  — 'tis  no  busi- 
ness of  ours ;  he  had  his  guitar  in  his  hand,  and  on  his 
guitar  he  was  playing;  singing,  too,  rather  egotistically, 
but  never  mind. 


La  ran,  la  lera,  la  ran,  1*  la. 
There's  no  time  for  the  city's  factotum  here, 
He  must  off  to  his  shop,  for  dawn  is  quite  near. 

La  ran,  la  lera,  la  ran,  la  la. 

What  merrier  life,  whose  pleasures  more  gay, 
Than  those  of  this  barber,  good  people  say, 
Ah  !  brave  Figaro,  bravo,  bravissirao, 
Is  there  a  better  one  ?  oh  dear,  dear  me,  no  ! 

La  ran,  la  lera,  la  ran,  la  la. 

Ready  at  call,  both  by  day  and  by  night, 
No  one  more  active,  and  no  one  more  light. 
What  better  cheer,  or  happier  lot, 
Have  any  men,  pray,  than  barbers  have  got  ? 

La  ran,  la  lera,  la  ran,  la  la. 

Lancet,  and  scizzors,  and  razor,  and  comb, 

Your  Figaro  sells  when  he's  at  home. 

B'it  when  he's  from  home,  his  trade's  billets-doux, 

Which  he'll  carry  for  that  man,  or  this  man,  or  you. 

La  ran,  la  lera,  la  ran,  la  la. 

How  I  am  looked  for  —  wherever  I  go, 
Oil  this  side  a  belle  —  on  that  aide  a  beau. 


IL   BARBIERE   Dl   SIVIGLIA.  119 

Whore  is  my  wig,  you  stupid  pig. 

Just  take  this  p.icket,  under  your  jacket 

Figaro  —  Figaro  —  here,  sir,  here, 

Figaro  up  —  Figaro  down, 

Figaro,  presto,  all  over  town. 
Oh  yes  ;  I'm  as  quick  as  lightning's  bright  flash, 
And  what's  best  of  all,  I  earn  plenty  of  cash. 
Oh  brave  Figaro  —  bravo  bravissiino, 
Is  there  no  better  one  —  oh  dear,  dear  me  no. 

La  ran,  la  lera,  la  ran,  la  la. 

This  contented  personage  was  rushing  off  to  his  shop 
wnen  he  went  crash  up  against  the  count  himself.  "  Good 
master !  " 

"  What  —  Figaro  !  Hush,  be  silent !  I'm  not  known 
here." 

"  Surely  —  surely  —  surely  —  Senor." 

It  would  be  hardly  within  the  bounds  of  possibility  to 
believe  that  the  grand  count  actually  set  to  work,  then 
and  there,  in  the  dark,  to  tell  Figaro  of  his  loves ;  but 
then  it  was  Figaro  —  and  the  barber  was  a  father  confess- 
or in  all  affairs  of  the  heart.  The  count  stated  that  he 
had  fallen  in  love  with  a  lady  whom  he  took  to  be  the 
daughter  of  an  old  physician  —  and  he,  count  as  he  was, 
called  himself  Lindoro,  and  was,  night  and  day,  watching 
that  balcony. 

'•'•That  window  !  Senor — you  are  lucky."  Then  the 
barber  set  him  right.  Her  name  was  Rosina  —  she  was 
not  the  doctor's  daughter,  but  his  ward  —  and  she  hated 
him;  and  he  was  jealous  of  her  —  and  she  was  wretched, 
and  he  was  wretched,  and  a  very  pretty  house  it  was.  As 
for  him,  Figaro,  in  that  said  house  he  was  everything  — 
barber,  hairdresser,  and  surgeon  too. 

He  was  in  the  full  tide  of  chatter  when  the  count  start- 
ed. Barber  knew,  without  looking,  that  the  window 
opened  —  and  she  was  in  the  balcony. 

Rosina  —  lovely  as  the  night  —  stood  in  the  balcony, 
holding  a  letter  in  her  hand.  She  was  wondering  where 
somebody  was. 

Crack !  —  she  had  barely  got  into  the  balcony  than  the 
old  doctor  was  after  her. 

u  A  fine  morning,  child.     What  letter 's  that  ?  " 

As  she  answered,  she  saw  the  proposed  owner  of  the 


120  TALES   FROM    THE   OPEUAS. 

letter.  "  A  letter  —  no  —  a  piece  of  music.  Oh,  clear,  it 
has  fallen  into  the  street  —  pray  go  and  pick  it  up." 

He  required  no  recommendation.  He  trundled  his  jeal- 
ous old  legs  to  the  street  door,  but  the  letter  was  deliver- 
ed. He  looked  sharply  about,  while,  the  young  lady  de- 
plored that  the  wind  had  carried  it  away. 

"  I'll  surely  have  that  balcony  walled  up,"  said  the  old 
doctor — "  I  surely  will." 

And  he  went  in  and  barred  the  door. 

As  for  the  letter — opened  and  read  by  Figaro  —  it 
stated  that  the  lady  had  a  laudible  curiosity  to  know  who 
and  what  was  the  serenader,  and  why  he  came  there  — 
that  she  was  touched  by  his  attentions ;  that  she  was 
wretched ;  that  she  hated  her  guardian  ;  and  that  her  name 
was  Rosina. 

After  reading  the  letter,  said  Figaro  —  "And  a  sad  old 
fellow  is  that  same  guardian  —  a  miser,  a  monster,  a 
wretch. 

Again  the  barber  was  brought  up  short  —  the  doctor 
had  left  his  house  again  —  going  to  see  a  patient.  And 
he  left  strict  injunctions  to  let  no  one  enter  while  he  was 
away ;  though,  if  Don  Basilio  came  —  let  him  wait  outside. 

A  stream  of  condemnation  for  Don  Basilio  —  who,  truth 
to  say,  was  a  rival  of  Figaro's.  "  A  match-maker  by 
trade,"  said  Figaro ;  "  a  penniless,  know-nothing  rapscal- 
lion, who  had  recently  set  up  as  a  music  master.  A  long, 
lank,  lean  man,  with  a  nose  like  a  hook;  and  he  taught 
Rosin  a  music  too  !  " 

"Chink  —  chink."  This  speaking  sound  was  the  pas- 
sage of  gold  from  count  to  barber.  Barber  engaged  upon 
that  argument  to  do  all  things. 

Clearly  the  first  thing  to  do  was  to  get  into  the  house. 
One  second,  and  the  barber  had  it.  A  regiment  had  just 
arrived  —  the  count  must  disguise  himself  as  a  soldier  and 
present  a  billet.  The  count  was  charmed  with  the  idea ; 
and  the  barber  was  charmed  with  himself.  "  Chink  — 
chink,"  from  the  barber's  purse.  Another  thought.  lie 
must  be  drunk  —  'twould  put  the  guardian  off  his  guard 
—  what  gentleman  would  be  drunk! 

So,  on  the  very  best  terms  with  each  other,  the  count 
and  the  barber  walked  off  to  put  their  plans  into  execution. 


IL  BARBIERE   DI   SIVIGLIA.  121 


CHAPTER  H. 

IT  is.,  I  hope,  no  imputation  upon  Rosina's  character 
to  say  she  watched  the  count  and  the  barber  as  they 
chatted ;  and  it  is  to  be  hoped  no  one  will  accuse  her  of 
impropriety,  if,  in  that  hour,  she  fairly  made  up  her  mind 
that  the  count  would  make  an  admirable  husband !  And 

—  and  after  a  time  she  wrote  another  letter  —  a  delicious 
lover's  relief — and  wondered  how  he  was  to  get  it;  and 
she  was  just  thinking  that  perhaps  Figaro  could 

When  Figaro  came  into  the  room. 

"  Good  day,  Senorita." 

"  Good  day,  Senor  Figaro ;  I  am  dying  of  weariness." 

w  Then  look  in  the  glass,  and  you'll  be  charmed." 

"  Charmed  in  a  tomb,  Figaro  ?     This  house  is  a  tomb." 

"  Dear,  clear  —  hist !  —  he's  coming." 

Figaro  slid  to  the  other  end  of  the  room  —  Rosina 
whisked  from  it,  and  the  barber  was  a  most  unconscious 
person  —  when  Dr.  Bartolo  and  Don  Basilic  —  humbug 
and  music-master  (vide  Figaro),  made  their  appearance. 

Figaro  was  ordered  out  for  the  present. 

Terror  for  Rosini  —  what  says  her  guardian  to  the 
other?  —  that  either  by  love  or  force  he  will  be  married 
to  her,  and  that  too,  within  twenty-four  hours. 

"  Ah  !  Count  Almaviva  has  arrived."  Here  the  inform- 
ant, Don  Basilio,  serpentized  all  his  fingers. 

"  What  —  what  —  that  same  unknown  lover  of  Ro- 
sina's?" 

"  The  very  same  —  but  softly  —  softly  —let's  paint  him 
black  —  as  black  as  paint  may  be." 

The  doctor  shook  his  head,  beckoned  his  friend  aside, 
for  this  was  a  thing  which  should  be  discussed  in  a  closet 

—  not  in  a  room. 

Hardly  had  they  left  the  apartment  than  it  lighted  up 
witli  the  presence  of  Figaro  and  Rosina. 

It  was  the  duty  of  Figaro  to  hear  —  "  chink  —  chink  " 

—  he  had  been  paid  for  it.     But  it  was  not  the  duty  of 
Rosina  to  listen;  so  she  had  not  heard. 

"  Wedding  cake,  Senorita!" 
"  Not  here,  Senor." 
6 


122  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

"  Yes  — yours ;  your  guardian  intends  to  marry  you." 

«  La,  la." 

"On  the  faith  of  a  barber  —  he  and  the  music-master 
are  at  this  moment  arranging  the  matter." 

u  Indeed  ;  but  Figaro,  who  Avas  it  that  I  saw  you  talk- 
ing with  a  few  hours  since  in  the  streets  ?  " 

"My  cousin — a  fine  fellow  —  with  the  best  of  heads 
and  hearts.  He  has  come  here  to  study,  and  make  his 
fortune." 

" Fortune  —  and  he'll  make  it,  Figaro?" 

"  He  has  one  defect  —  he's  over  head  and  ears  in  love ! " 

"  Tndeed  —  how  interested  I  am !  Where  does  she 
live  ?  " 

"  Not  far  off." 

"  Twleed ;  handsome  ?  " 

"  Hum  —  yes  ;  here's  her  portrait.  A  prett}'  graceful 
figure — such  jetty  ringlets  —  a  rosy  cheek  —  eyes  too 
that  sparkle  —  and " 

"  And  her  name  ?  " 

«  ROSINA  ! " 

w  What !  /the  poor  Lindoro's  flame  ?  " 

''As  sure  Rosina  is  your  name  !" 

u  And  I  shall  see  him,  and  speak  to  him  ?  " 

•'You  will  —  and  soon  —  and  here.  But  he,  poor  fel- 
low, fain  would  have  some  token  — just  two  lines ;  come 
—  quick  —  a  note." 

"  A  note  —  oh  —  here's  one  ready." 

"  Ah  !     In  love  I  plainly  see, 
She's  taken  her  degree, 
What  man  knows  woman's  art  ? 
Faith  —  what  man  knows  a  part  ?  " 

And  he  was  gone. 

She  wore  a  very  pleased  expression  of  feature  for  two 
minutes  after  Figaro  had  departed.  But  then  she  justi- 
fiably pouted,  for  Dr.  Bartolo  came  into  the  room,  feeble 
in  all  his  parts  but  his  eyes,  which  were  glancing  about 
like  sharp  knives.  Figaro.  He  was  doubtful  of  Figaro. 
And  he  was  sure  of  Rosina's  simplicity. 

"  What  man  knows  woman's  art  ? 
Faith  —  what  man  knows  a  part  ?  " 


IL   BARBIERE   DI   SIVIGLIA.  123 

So  he  thought  he  would  question  her. 

"Pray  what  brought  the  barber  here  so  early — he 
spoke  to  you  ?  " 

"  He  always  does !  And  chatted  of  a  thousand  things 
—  the  latest  fashions  from  Paris  —  and  —  and  other 
things." 

"  And  the  answer  of  your  note !  No  quibbling  —  the 
note,  the  piece  of  music  you  dropped  this  morning  from 
the  balcony  ?  You  blush  —  how  came  that  finger  marked 
with  ink?" 

"  A  burn  —  I  used  the  ink  to  cure  it ! " 

"That  paper  —  where's  the  sixth  —  there  are  but  five 
sheets  here." 

"  I  wrapped  some  sweetmeats  in  it,  that  I  sent  to 
Figaro's  little  niece." 

"  And  this  pen  —  why  'tis  yet  wet." 

"  Yes  —  I  designed  a  flower." 

"  A  flower  indeed  ! " 

Finding  she  had  the  worst  of  the  battle,  she  flouuced 
away  and  out  of  the  room,  the  doctor  following  her,  and 
positively  breathing  jealousy. 


There  was  such  a  knocking  at  the  street  door,  that  the 
whole  house  shook  in  alarm ;  and  old  Bertha,  the  house- 
keeper, thought  it  was  coming  down  about  her  ears. 
Hence  she  opened  the  door  with  greater  speed  than  she 
had  used  for  years,  and  she  stood  a  ghost  as  there,  upon 
the  door  step,  she  saw  a  soldier  —  and,  moreover,  a  drunk- 
en soldier.  She  would  have  banged  to  the  door  again 

—  but  in  so  doing  she  must  have  crushed  the  intruder,  for 
he  was  coolly  leaning  against  the  post. 

The  old  housekeeper  came  steaming  back  into  the  room, 
her  arms  wide  open,  and,  so  to  speak  —  full  of  the  subject 

—  the  soldier  —  the  drunken  soldier! 

"  Tramp  —  tramp  —  tramp  —  tramp."  Two  steps  and  a 
stagger  on  the  part  of  the  soldier. 

Dr.  Bartolo  heard  the  noise,  and  came  in  at  a  sharp 
trot  at  one  door,  as  the  drunken  soldier  came  stumbling 
in  at  the  other. 


124  TALKS  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

?  Here  you  —  are  you  —  are  you  —  well  ARE  you  he  ? 
«  He  —  he  —  what  he  ?  " 

"  Doctor  Berteldo  —  Balordo  —  whatever  it  is ?  " 

'  Go  to  the  deuce,  sir  —  my  name  is  Bartolo ! " 
"Well  —  well  —  Dr.  Barbaro — it  don!t  matter  — 
are  you,  Dr.  Barbaro?     Let  us  embrace,  doctor." 
"  Stand  back,  sir." 
"  I  WILL  embrace  thee.    Ah,  how  good  that  is  I 

"  The  marshal  of  regiment  I, 
A  doctor,  too,  of  full  degrees  — 
A  billet  on  your  house  I  hold 
Pray  look  at  it  —  dear  doctor  —  please." 

As  the  doctor  took  the  paper  in  a  sightless  rage,  little 
Rosina  came  tripping  in. 

"  Methought  I  overheard  just  now, 
A  most  unusual  clamor  here, 
A  soldier  —  and  my  guardian  —  too, 
There's  something  much  amiss  I  fear." 

"  I  am  Lindoro."  Thus  the  drunken  soldier,  in  a  soft, 
delicate  voice,  suited  to  —  love-making. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  which  caused  the  old  guardian  to 
start,  and  look  up.  At  her  he  ran  like  a  mad  bull. 

"  Go  along  —  girl  —  go  along.! " 

"  And,  faith  I,  marshall,  aye,  and  doctor  too,  will  e'en 
go  with  her." 

u  Indeed  you  wont." 

"  My  quarters,  sir,  are  here." 

"  He  reeled  towards  her,  but  his  voice  was  far  from 
thick,  in  fact,  deliciously  soft,  as  he  whispered,  "  Dearest, 
dearest ! " 

"  Help,"  she  screamed,  but  her  glance  was  quite  kind, 
nevertheless. 

Meanwhile,  the  guardian  was  spluttering  wildly  — 
"  Zounds,  sir,  stand  off." 

"Quick  —  quick — your  handkerchief — let  it  fall,"  he 
again  softly  whispered;  and  as  the  old  doctor  had  his 
eyes  on  him,  he  drew  forth  his  sword  and  made  a  dread- 
ful lunge  at  Bertha,  who,  with  a  squeal,  shot  away  with 
all  the  speed  she  could  muster. 

As  for  the  guardian  —  he  thought  he  should  burst  with 


IL  BAKBIEKE   DI   SIVIGLIA.  125 

rage.  But  the  next  moment  he  had  to  scamper  too,  for 
the  drunken  wretch  made  a  lunge  at  him. 

"  Sir  —  sir  —  I'm  exempt  from  billeting." 

"  Quick  —  quick  —  Rosina —  take  this  letter; "  and  with 
a  remarkably  steady  hand  the  soldier  held  her  out  a  del- 
icate little  billet. 

But  she  saw  the  eyes  upon  her,  so  she  could  not  take  it. 

Still  with  his  eyes  on  her,  the  old  doctor  thrust  his 
hand  into  a  desk,  and  brought  forward  a  paper  —  an  ex- 
emption from  billeting. 

Said  the  soldier,  "Don't  pull  that  paper  out,  old  man 
—  unnecessary  pain.  I've  taken  up  my  quarters  here  — 
and  here  I  will  remain." 

"  You  will  —  not  if  there  ai-e  cudgels  in  Seville." 

"  You'd  fight  —  then  let's  begin.  A  charming  thing  a 
battle  —  truly.  I'll  show  you  how  to  fight.  Now  mark 
me  —  let  this  be  the  trench  —  and  you  the  enemy.  Now 
pray  you  mark  me,  sir, —  (drop  your  handkerchief)  — 
now  —  but  look  the  other  way." 

Here  the  drunken  soldier  let  fall  a  something  like  a 
note,  and  immediately  something  like  a  lace  handkerchief 
fell  over  it. 

The  doctor  saw  it,  though  he  did  not  see  whence  it 
came;  and  he  made  straight  for  the  contraband  property. 
But  the  soldier  stopped  him. 

"  'Tis  nought  but  a  prescription,  sir ;  I  told  you  I  was  a 
doctor,  well  degreed.  The  writing's  bad,  I  fain  would 
have  you  see  it  not." 

"  And  I  myself  would  just  fain  see  it." 

"  Ah  !  'tis  a  little  love  affair,  perhaps  of  hers.  Pardon." 
Here  he  picked  up  the  note  and  lace,  and  handed  them  to 
Rosina. 

The  doctor  deserted  the  soldier  directly,  and  fell  upon 
his  little  ward.  "  Quick,  quick,  the  paper !  " 

"If  I  could  but  change  it,"  thought  she  ;  and  she  did.  In 
a  pretended  little  fright  she  leant  against  the  table,  cover- 
ed a  paper  with  her  hand,  and  the  deceptive  deed  was 
done. 

'Twas  but  a  list  of  groceries! 

*  A  fool  —  a  fool  —  a  very  fool  am  I,"  thought  the  old 
doctor.  But  he  did  not  say  so. 


126  TALES   FROM   TIIK   OPERAS. 

Here  there  was  tho  sound  of  weeping  on  the  part  of  a 
young  lady,  who  was  heard  to  remark,  in  a  tearful  voice, 
that  such  oppression  was  intolerable,  and  such  a  life  quite 
unendurable.  These  remarks,  unusual  in  the  sprightly 
Rosina  —  for  she  loved  to  defy  the  doctor  —  caused  inex- 
pressible pain  to  the  drunken  soldier,  who  was  still  reel- 
ing about ;  and  perhaps  somebody  knew  the  little  stubs 
these  same  remarks  would  give. 

"  What  man  knows  woman's  art, 
Faith  —  what  man  knows  a  part  ?  " 

Suddenly  the  soldier  lunged  forward  with  his  long 
sword  again,  and  did  so  fly  and  lay  about  him,  that  old 
Bertha  took  more  exercise  than  she  had  taken  since  her 
hair  turned  white.  As  for  the  old  doctor,  he  flew  about 
till  his  respectable  black  legs  looked  like  a  dozen  at  least. 

"  Help,  help  !  "  shrieked  the  doctor. 

"Murder,  murder!"  quavered  the  old  lady,  getting  over 
the  ground  more  quickly  than  ever. 

"  Oh !  oh !  oh  !  "  said  the  young  lady,  in  great  fear  of 
the  drunken  soldier.  "  Pray  be  still,  soldier!  " 

Suddenly,  and  with  a  bound,  rushed  in  barber. 

"  What's  the  matter  —  what's  the  clatter  T 
About  a  quiet  house  'tis  pity. 
I  pray  you,  doctor,  gaze  below, 
>\  hat's  this  to-do,  the  crowd  would  know." 

"  This  is  a  rogue." 

"  Then  you're  another." 

"  This  is  a  knave." 

"  Then  you're  my  brother." 

Then  the  barber : 

"  Good  Mr.  Soldier,  have  a  care, 
Or,  as  sure  as  you  stand  there. 
This  basin  here,  at  one  fell  smack, 
'  Gainst  your  sconce  it  shall  go  crack." 

"  Bang  —  bang  —  bang ! "  at  the  street  door. 
u  Bang  —  bang  —  bang !  " 

The  old  guardian  hesitated  for  a  moment ;  but  then, 
thinking  he  couldn't  make  matters  worse,  he  went  and 


IL    B.VttBIERE    DI    SIVIGLIA.  127 

opened  the  door ;  and  in  came  the  watch,  and  part  of  the 
crowd,  and  tramped  all  over  the  place. 
Said  the  officer : 

••  I  ne'er  hear,!  such  a  noise  before, 
Whence  springs  this  horrible  uproar?  " 

The  drunken  soldier,  and  the  indignant  guardian,  and 
the  rapid  Figaro,  and  the  pert  Rosina,  and  even  the 
flushed  old  Bertha  herself  hastened  to  give  their  evidence 
in  chorus;  but,  with  a  stern  wave  of  the  hand,  the  captain 
of  the  watch  bade  one  speak  at  a  time. 

The  doctor's  grey  hair  carried  it.  He  deposed  that  the 
soldier  was  a  scoundrel,  a  coward,  and  a  scamp,  who  had 
sought  his  life  and  drawn  his  sword  —  and  that,  too,  with- 
out the  least  provocation. 

Here  the  barber  could  not  help  striking  in,  "Yes, 
Senor,  and  I  came  in,  and  I  parted  the  sanguinary  com- 
batants." 

"  Oh  dear,  oh  dear ! "  This  was  the  voice  of  a  Ihght- 
ened  little  maiden  who  began  to  think  a  certain  drunken 
soldier  was  in  trouble. 

"  You  are  arrested,"  said  the  captain  of  the  watch  to 
the  drunken  soldier. 

Who,  thereupon,  thinking  that  the  farce  had  been 
played  long  enough,  tore  open  the  breast  of  his  coat  and 
showed  the  Order  of  the  Grandees  of  Spain. 

We  are  bound  to  set  forth  the  particulars  of  the 
Spanish  chronicle,  whence  we  learn  that  the  effect  of  this 
"  Order"  was  order  indeed.  The  officer,  with  unpardon- 
able partiality,  immediately  un-arrested  (to  coin  a  word) 
the  drunken  soldier,  and  everybody  was  respectfully 
astonished.  Then,  everybody  went  peacefully  home,  and 
(bed  time  arriving)  went  possibly,  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  III. 

NEXT  day,  Dr.  Bartolo  sat  him  down  to  discuss  the 
drunken  soldier.  The  aged  gentleman  had  sent  out 
streams  of  inquiry  in  every  direction,  and  he  had  ascer- 


128  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

tained  that  no  such  person  as  the  drunken  visitor  was 
known  in  the  regiment.  Then  who  was  he?  Suspicion 
gave  birth  to  acuteness,  and  this  jealous  old  gentleman 
soon  made  up  his  mind  that  the  stranger  was  in  the 
employ  of  his  ward's  —  the  unknown  —  lover,  the  detest- 
ed Count  Almaviva. 

He  was  in  the  midst  of  a  deep  plan  of  retribution  and 
revenge,  when  a  thwacking  at  the  outer  door  jerked  him, 
as  it  were,  from  his  reverie.  Before  old  Bertha  could 
open  that  door  the  knocks  were  repeated  again  and  again, 
and  the  doctor  had  just  risen  to  open  himself  (that  is  the 
door)  when  a  visitor  appeared. 

A  youngish  looking,  fairly  handsome  man,  whom  par- 
tial eyes  would  have  declared  to  be  very  much  like  tho 
drunken  soldier,  alias  Liudoro,  alias  Count  Almaviva, 
stood  just  within  the  room,  dressed  sedately  in  black,  and 
making  the  profoundest  of  bows. 

"  May  heaven  send  you  peace  and  joy."  A  profound 
bow. 

"  Thank  you ;  they'll  be  new  gifts  of  heaven,  but  don't 
trouble  yourself.  Who  are  you  ?  " 

"  May  peace  and  joy  be  yours  for  years,  and  years  by 
thousands."  Another  profound  bow. 

"  Thank  you ;  but  don't  trouble  yourself.  "Who  is 
he  ?  I  think  I  know  that  face,  h-u-u-u-u-m !  But  yet 
the  countenance  is  changed,  and  certainly  the  dress, 
h-u-u-u-u-m ! n 

"  Yes,  joy  and  peace,  and  peace  and  joy,  and  joy  and 
peace  together."  Here  the  stranger  bowed  lower  than 
ever. 

«  Well  —  well  —  well  —well  —  well !  " 

"Yes,  joy  and  peace  I  think  —  I  said  with  all  my  heart. 
He  nearly  laid  his  nose  upon  the  doctor's  instep.  And 
the  new  comer  rather  thought  this  last  disguise  was  per- 
fect, and  panted  for  the  moment  when  he  and  his  Rosina 
should  sweetest  converse  hold. 

"  And  pray,  sir,  who  are  you  ?  " 

"I'm  Don  Alonzo  —  and  I  am  of  music  a  professor, 
and  I  am,  as  well,  dear  sir,  a  pupil  of  Basilio's  —  I  mean 
good  Don  Basilio's.  Poor  man,  he's  very  ill,  so  in  hie 
stead — " 


1L  BAKBIERE   DT   SJVIGLIA.  129 

""What,  very  ill  — then  I  must  run  and  see  him." 

"  No,  no,  pray  don't  run  and  see  him,  'tis  no  dangeroua 
illness." 

"  Hu — u — u — urn.    Come,  let's  go." 
•  «  But,  sir !  " 

"  Hu— u— u— in." 

u  Now  hear  me." 

«  Hu— u— urn." 

"  I'm  Don  Alonzo  truly  —  but  — but  as  the  truth  you'll 
have  — I  come  as  well  from  Almaviva  —  count." 

u  Softly,  softly,  my  good  sir." 

"  The  count." 

"  Yes  —  yes  —  yes  —  but  softly,  softly ! " 

"  This  morning  to  my  lodging  came,  and  in  my  hands, 
by  chance,  there  fell  this  note,  directed  by  your  ward  to 
DIM." 

"  Her  very  hand." 

"  You  see,  good  doctor,  busied  with  a  lawyer,  Basilio 
could  not  come,  and  so  sent  me,  but  he  knows  nothing  of 
this  letter,  trust  me.  Well  now,  for  I  am  mightily  desir- 
ous, good  sir,  of  your  favor,  if  now  I  could  speak  a  word 
to  her?" 

"  Speak,  speak  with  her !  " 

"  I  might  induce  the  senorita  to  think  I  had  this  letter 
from  —  " 

«  Well,  well." 

"A  mistress  of  the  count's.     And  then  you  see." 

"Good, good.  She'd  hate  him.  Softly, good!  a  calum- 
ny. Ah,  ah!  a  worthy  scholar  you  of  Don  Basilio's. 
Well,  well,  I'll  call  the  chit,  and  since  you  are  so  interest- 
ed in  me,  why,  I'll  e'en  repose  great  confidence  in  you." 

The  old  man  shakily  going  out  of  the  room  to  hunt  up 
his  unfortunate  little  ward,  the  music  master  sat  musing 
the  most  delicious  thoughts.  If  now  she  would  only  con- 
sent to  his  plan,  then  they  would  be  completely  happy. 

When  the  doctor  came  back,  leading  the  opposing  and 
indignant  Rosina  into  the  room,  his  jealousy  was  awake 
in  a  moment ;  for  how  should  Rosina  know  that  the  Don 
Alonzo  was  somebody  else  at  the  same  time?  Hence, 
when  she  looked  up  haughtily  at  the  music  master,  behold 
6* 


130  TALKS  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

her  face  changed  its  expression  directly,  and  to  a  little 
scream  she  added  a  little  start. 

The  doctor  saw  the  first,  heard  the  second,  and  felt  the 
third. 

«  Well  —  well  —  well ! " 

"  Oh  dear  me,  Senor,  the  cramp  I" 

"  Hu  —  u  —  u  — u  —  m." 

Meanwhile,  the  music  master  was  again  making  the 
profoundest  of  bows.  Then  he  profoundly  placed  a  music 
stool  before  an  old  piano,  and  profoundly  proposed  to  the 
young  lady  that  she  should  sit  down. 

Perhaps  not  unwillingly,  she  sat  down,  and  perhaps  not 
unwillingly,  she  poured  forth  a  delightful  song. 

Arriving  at  the  end  of  it,  and  even  the  most  delicious 
songs  will  come  to  an  end,  the  new  music  master  was 
most  enthusiastic  in  his  praises. 

The  doctor  would  qualify  his  praise.  The  voice  was 
good  — granted.  But  the  airs  —  why  the  airs  of  the  pres- 
ent day  —  what  were  they  ?  Contemptible.  Now,  for 
instance,  when  the  wonderful ,  Cafhriello  sang,  and  when 
he  sang  that  wonderful  'la,  la,  la*  of  his,  why  there  was 
an  air  to  which  none  could  object.  In  fact  he  would  sing 
it.  It  began  — 

"  When  thou  art  near,  Rosina  dear." 
To  be  sure  the  song  said  Giannina  —  but  never  mind. 

"  When  thou  art  ne-e-e-ar,  Rosina  de-e-e-ar, 
With  joy  and  fe-e-e-ar,  there  falls  a  te-e-e-ar." 

This  delicious  romance  the  old  doctor  pointed  by  means 
of  his  right  foot  and  toes.  He  also  elaborated  the  accent 
by  means,  first  of  his  right  hand  and  arm,  and  then  of  his 
left  hand  and  arm ;  and  getting  to  te-e-a-r,  he  laid  both 
his  hands  on  his  heart,  looked  sentimental,  and  fell  into  a 
rage  ;  for  he  caught  sight  of  Figaro  behind  him,  mimick- 
ing him. 

Meanwhile,  the  professor  of  music  was  diligently  ox- 
plaining  (perhaps  the  ground-work  of  music),  to  the 
young  lady,  who  was  as  diligently  listening. 

The  barber  wag  horrified  at  the  doctor's  discovery,  and 
immediately  flourished  about  his  razors. 


IL   BAKBIEEE   DI   SIVIGLIA.  •  131 

"Well  —  well  —  well." 

M  Excuse  me,  Senor  —  I  come  to  shave  you/' 

"  I'll  not  be  shaved  to-day." 

"  Then  not  to-morrow.     I'm  engaged  to-morrow." 

" I  say  I'll  not  be  shaved  to-day" 

"  What,  doctor  —  think  you  I'm  a  country  shaver!  Sc 
please  you  find  another  barber  —  I  am  off." 

"  Well  —  well  —  have  your  way.  Go  to  my  room  and 
—  no  —  no,  I'll  go  myself." 

I  have  forgotten  to  say  that  the  old  doctor  bad  locked 
up  the  balcony,  and  carried  the  key  in  his  pocket  —  with 
all  the  other  keys  —  a  mighty  bunch.  The  doctor  locked 
up  everything. 

Amongst  other  things  and  places,  the  doctor  always 
locked  up  his  own  room.  Now,  therefore,  he  hauled 
forth  the  mighty  bunch,  and  turned  his  legs  towards  the 
door.  Suddenly  his  suspicion  was  all  awake  again. 
What,  leave  the  stranger  and  the  barber  there !  No  — 
no.  "Here,  Figaro  —  take  the  keys;  be  careful,  and 
break  nothing ! " 

As  Figaro  passed  the  young  lady  she  looked  up,  and 
said  rapidly  —  "  The  newest  key  there  is." 

With  a  jingle  of  triumph  the  barber  ran  off. 

"Hu-u-u-m  —  that  Senor,  music-master,  was  the 
who  brought  her  the  letter  from  the  count." 

« Indeed ! " 

At  this  moment  there  was  heard  a  horrible  crash,  which, 
sounded  like  a  canonnade  with  china  bowls. 

Away  flew  the  doctor  after  the  barber ;  again  the  ex- 
planation of  the  "  ground-work "  went  on  ;  and  was  only 
interrupted  by  Figaro's  flying  entrance  —  a  bright  new 
little  key  between  his  fore-finger  and  thumb. 

Victory  —  in  fact ! 

But  he  showed  a  very  doleful  countenance  as  the  doc- 
tor came  deploringly  in  the  room. 

"  Six  plates  —  eight  basins — one  tureen  ! 
Was  such  damage  ever  seen?  " 

But,  in  spite  of  plates  and  dishes,  the  time  of  a  town 
barber  was  not  to  be  wasted ;  so  Figaro,  flourishing  his 
instruments  of  torture  about,  the  doctor  sat  down,  and 


132          '  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

the  barber  was  preparing  to  dash  at  him,  brush  in  hand, 
when  his  arm  remained  suspended  in  the  air ;  for  Marplot, 
in  the  shape  of  Don  Basilio,  stood  in  the  doorway ! 

For  an  instant  the  barber  was  disconcerted,  but  recov- 
ering his  presence  of  mind,  he  prepared  to  assault  the 
doctor.  But  the  latter,  struggling  to  his  feet,  called  out, 
«  Basilio !  '  tis  Basilio ! " 

Don  Basilio  made  a  lean  bow,  taking  off  his  shovel  hat 
with  his  long  fingers.  "  Good  day  to  you ;  good  day  to 
all." 

As  for  the  young  people  at  the  piano,  they  could  only 
wonder  what  could  come  next. 

"  And  pray,  Basilio,  how  are  you  ?  "  asked  the  doctor, 
earnestly. 

"  How  am  I ;  as  well  as  ever." 

"Excuse  me  Senor,  but  that  confounded  beard  of 
yours ;  a  town  barber  cannot  wait  all  day ! " 

"  Yes,  yes ;  directly.    And  the  lawyer,  Don  Basilio  ?  " 

"The  lawyer?" 

The  professor  of  music  deserted  his  post  and  fled  up  to 
the  doctor.  "  Of  the  affair,  Senor,  of  the  letter,  recollect 
he  nothing  knows." 

The  barber  turned  to  Don  Basilio,  who  was  elevating 
his  eyebroAvs,  and  all  the  wrinkles  in  his  forehead,  won- 
dering what  all  this  might  mean.  "  Oh  heavens,  Don 
Basilio,  this  is  fever." 

Said  Figaro, 

"  Yes,  I  swear  it  by  my  post ; 
You're  as  chalky  as  a  ghost 
Fever  !  ghost  ! 
Don  Basilio  —  go  to  bed, 
'Tis  the  fever  called  the  red 

The  professor  of  music  made  that  "chink,  chink"  cho- 
rus already  alluded  to;  and  when  IK-  performed  it  he  was 
standing  near  the  barber.  Thereupon  said  Figaro,  still 
hi  his  quality  of  surgeon,  and  still  to  Don  Basilio. 

"  And  as  you'll  want  a  nurse. 
Let  me  reconnneud  —  this  purse  ; 
Yes  ;  you  are  very  bad  indeed. 
In  aucb.  cases  one  must  —  bleed." 


IL  BARBIEEE    DI   SIYIGLIA.  133 

The  music-master,  the  barber,  and  the  young  lady  too, 
•were  all  so  interested  in  Don  Basilio's  health,  and  they 
did  so  crowd  about  him,  that  the  doctor  could  neither  put 
in  a  word  nor  get  near  his  friend,  whose  fingers  went 
twisting  about,  trying  to  discover  the  most  profitable  line 
of  conduct  to  pursue. 

At  last :  — 

"  Good  day  to  all  —  with  all  my  heart, 
I  make  my  bow,  and  so  depart." 

The  town  barber  was  immediately  himself  again  with 
his  implements.  He  turned  even  his  handsome  body  to 
account ;  for  he  made  of  it  a  screen,  and  so  hid  the  piano 
and  the  two  young  people  from  the  doctor's  green  eyes. 

"Do,  re,  me,  fa." 

"  We  have  the  keys  of  the  balcony ;  at  midnight  be 
you  there." 

"  Yes  ;  Sol,  la,  si,  do-o-o-o-o." 

"  Now  pray  don't  forget  the  hour." 

"  No.    D-o-o-o-o,  si,  la,  sol-1-1-1." 

"  At  twelve  you  will  be  mine." 

"  Yes.     Fa-a-a,  me,  re,  d-o-o-o-o." 

"  And  now  you  trust  yourself  to  me  Rosi  — ." 

"  A-h-h-h,"  shrieked  the  doctor,  his  head  coming  round 
the  human  screen,  and  noticing  the  whispers.  He  evaded 
the  quivering  razor  and  rushed  at  the  music-people,  one 
of  whom,  to  wit  the  master,  looked  the  picture  of  inno- 
cent consternation  ;  while  the  other  was  quite  astonished. 

Cried  Figaro :  — 

"  When  thus  a  man  doth  rage  and  rave, 
The  thing  to  do  's  his  head  to  shave." 

"I  think  I'd  better  go,"  said  the  music-master, 
tremblingly. 

"I  think  you  had,"  said  Figaro. 

"  Alas  !  Why,  before  he  went,  did  he  not  tell  Rosina 
of  his  giving  her  letter  to  the  doctor.  Alas !  Why  did 
this  necessity  escape  the  attention  of  the  all-seeing 
Figaro  ?  They  both  departed  —  the  barber  flippantly,  the 
professor  profoundly.  And  neither  thought  of  the  for- 


134  TALES  FROM  THK  OPERAS. 

getfulness  up  to  the  time  when  they  were  both  fixing  a 
ladder  against  the  locked  up  balcony. 

Meanwhile,  little  Rosina  had  been  converted  into  a 
little  tigress. 

For  not  an  hour  had  the  count  and  barber  been  gone, 
when  Don  Basilio  had  persuaded  himself  his  line  of  pro- 
fitable conduct  was  to  come  creeping  back  after  a  little 
more  money.  This  time  he  knew  not  a  purse  full,  for  the 
doctor  was  old  and  his  purse  low.  He  came  in  with  his 
low  bow. 

u  Noble  doctor,  do  you  know  who  this  Alonzo  was  ?  " 

"No,  no ;  sent  by  the  count,  perhaps," 

"It  was  the  count  himself.  Some  scheme  is  sure 
afoot," 

"  Good ;  and  I'll  scheme  too.  Now,  haste,  Basilio,  to 
the  notary,  and  bid  hiai  come.  This  very  night  I'll  mar- 
ry her." 

"But,  noble  doctor;  fetch  the  notary !  And  it  rains  in 
torrents.  Again,  most  noble  doctor,  the  notary  is  en- 
gaged ;  this  very  night  the  barber  Figaro  gives  his  niece 
in  marriage." 

"The  barber  Figaro  has  no  niece!  Another  plot  — 
another  plot.  Now,  go,  and  call  the  notary!  Go — go  — 
go  !  Here,  take  the  street  door  key,  and  go  —  go  —  go ! " 

Then  he  cried  out  for  Rosina ;  and  that  young  beauty 
appearing,  he  very  quickly  turned  her  into  a  young 
tigress. 

"  A  pretty  pitfall,  Senorita ! " 

"Indeed!'" 

"  I've  some  news  from  your  new  lover." 

"  Lover,  indeed ! " 

"Indeed!  most  nobly  you've  bestowed  your  young 
affections,  truly.  Why,  with  another  he  makes  sport  of 
you." 

"  He  dares ! " 

"(I'm  right.)  Yes,  Senorita;  as  you  say,  'he  dares.' 
Behold  this  letter;  it  formed  for  them  a  comedy." 

"  My  very  note." 

"  (A  pretty  plot.)  Wliy^his  Alonzo  and  the  barber 
are  but  tools,  whose  master  is  Count  Almaviva," 

"  Oh,  Lindoro." 


1L  BARBIfcEE   t)l   SIVlGLIA.  .     135 

("Lmdoro,  is  it!") 

"  Vengeance !  Did  you  not  say  you'd  marry  me  ? 
You  did  ;  then  let  us  married  be.  And  noWj  at  once 
(stamp  of  the  foot),  at  once,  at  once !  At  midnight  he'll 
be  here,  and  with  him,  Senor,  barber  Figaro.  It  all  was 
settled  I  should  fly  and  marry  him." 

"  Ah  !  I  run  to  bar  the  door." 

"  Tis  useless,  Senor,  you'd  better  bar  the  window." 

"  The  window  ! " 

"  Yes  —  yes  —  they  have  the  key ! " 

"The  key!  I'll  not  stir  from  the  spot*  Yet,  should 
they  come  with  arms  !  I'd  better  call  the  watch,  and  call 
them  thieves.  Go,  shut  yourself  within  your  room,  and 
double  lock  the  door ! " 

And  out  into  the  pelting  rain  he  rushed,  while  the  little 
tigress,  somewhat  accusing  herself  of  hastiness,  wenl 
slowly  to  her  room. 

At  first  there  was  nothing  heard  but  the  rain ;  then 
"  click,  click,"  the  turning  of  a  key  in  a  lock.  Then  the 
window  opened  slowly,  and  with  light  jumps,  in  came  the 
count  and  the  barber. 

And  at  this  very  moment,  Don  Basilio,  drenched  to  his 
very  fingers'  ends,  was  stalking  along  the  street,  towards 
the  doctor's,  and  with  him  was  a  notary,  who  with  reluc- 
tance had  left  his  house. 

And  at  this  very  moment,  also,  Dr.  Bartolo  was  full 
three  sti'eets  ofij  laying  a  complaint  before  the  Alcade. 

"  Rosina  —  Rosina ! "  cried  Figaro. 

"  Rosina  —  Rosina ! "  cried  the  count. 

No  answer. 

"  Why,  where  can  she  be  ?  "  cried  both  together. 

She  had  not,  of  course,  meant  to  come ;  but  hope  is 
strong,  and  so  at  this  precise  moment  she  came  softly  into 
the  room. 

"Dear  Rosina!" 

"  Stand  back,  Senor, — I  but  come  here  to  tell  you,  you 
have  lost  me." 

"  Can  I  believe  my  precious  senses ! "  exclaimed  the 
barber. 

"  Rosina ! " 

"  Peace,  Senor.  Did  you  not  pretend  to  love  me,  that 
you  might  betray  mo  ?  " 


136  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

"And  to  whom?" 

"  The  Count  Almaviva." 

"  Ah  —  good ! "  said  Figaro  to  hiraselC 

"  Then  thou  didst  love  Lindoro  ?  " 

"Too  well." 

"  Then  thou  didst  love  the  count  ?  " 

"  The  count ! " 

"  Rosina  —  yes  —  the  count  is  thy  Lindoro. 

u  And  Lindoro  is  the  count,"  said  Figaro. 

The  bliss  of  these  young  people  was  soon  ended — for 
alas!  Figaro,  who,  as  a  general  precaution,  was  looking 
on  all  sides  and  on  all  levels,  saw  from  the  balcony  one 
lantern  and  two  persons  down  below  at  the  door! 

"  Quick  —  the  ladder,"  shouted  he,  and  instinctively  he 
felt  for  it.  Gone  —  vanished.  Even  Figaro  was  discon- 
certed. 

Footsteps ! 

The  one  lantern  and  the  two  persons.  Don  Basilio 
and  the  notary. 

"Noble  Dr.  Bartolo,"  whispered  the  gaunt  man. 

Figaro  slipped  quickly  round  the  new  comers,  and  then 
said  softly  to  the  count — "'Tis  the  scamp  Basilio  and 
our  notary.  Cheer  up,  leave  all  to  me."  Then  aloud  he 
added,  "Good  evening,  gentlemen, —  I  pray  yoti  place 
the  lantern  on  the  table  here.  Senor  notary !  this  eve- 
ning at  my  house  you  were  to  see  a  contract  signed 
between  the  Count  Almaviva  and  my  niece. —  Well,  here 
are  you  and  I,  the  count,  and  also,  here's  my  niece." 

"But  where's  the  doctor?"  said  Basilio,  to  whom 
Figaro,  handing  him  a  ring  from  the  count's  hand, 

"  Put  this  ring  upon  your  bond, 
And  let  no  more  be  said, 
Or  the  next  report  may  be, 
You're  shot  clean  through  the  head." 

Don  Basilio  saw  the  force  of  the  argument,  and  accepted 
the  ring. 

"  Then  there  was  the  scratching  of  pens,  and  the  sign- 
ing of  names,  and  in  less  time  than  it  takes  to  record  the 
fact,  Rosina  was  a  wife ! 

And  at  this  moment  arrived  Doctor  Bartolo,  with  a 


IL   BAEBIEBE   DI    SITIGLIA.  137 

posse  of  people  —  the  Alcade,  and  one,  two,  three  —  a 
whole  regiment  of  alguazils. 

"  Arrest  them,  arrest  them  all." 

"What  me.     Figaro  —  arrest  me  !  " 

"  I  say  arrest  them  all,  they  all  are  thieves." 

It  is  reported  that  the  alcade  marched  up  to  the  count 
with  great  dignity,  but  when  he  saw  who  it  was  —  a  real 
living  count  —  he  fell  back  without  any  show  of  dignity 
whatever. 

And  to  a  certain  question  that  the  doctor  put  to  Figaro, 
this  was  all  the  reply :  — "  Chink,  chink."  The  question 
—  simply  how  it  was  that  Figaro  could  turn  against  him 
and  betray  him :  "  Chink,  chink."  An  argument  with- 
out reply. 

The  doctor  was  not  a  bad  doctor  —  and  as  he  could  do 
himself  no  good  by  being  angry  —  and  as  the  bridegroom 
was  a  count  —  why  he  forgave  them. 

And  as  this  chronicle  is  all  about  the  loves  of  two 
people  who  are  now  happily  married,  and  about  a  guardi- 
an who  is  a  guardian  no  longer,  why,  obviously,  this 
chronicle  is  ended. 


RIGOLETTO.     (VERDI.) 

This  tells  of  a  hunch-back  only,  who  wears  two  masks, 
The  one  is  mocking  jest  —  the  second  godlike  love, 
And  if  he  wears  them  both  too  mixedly  — chide  not  — 
But  dole  him  and  his  woes  some  pity. 

Now  full  to. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Ix  the  sixteenth  century,  kings  and  dukes  still  kept 
their  fools.  The  Duke  of  Mantua  had  his  — a  poor  hunch- 
back, whom  they  called  Rigoletto.  He  was  as  witty  as  any 
fool  in  France  or  Italy ;  and  he  was  an  honest  man  in  this 
—  that  he  despised  the  courtiers,  who  bowed  low  before 
the  tyranny  of  the  duke,  who  broke  up  their  families  as  a 
child  would  toys,  and  quite  as  fearlessly.  And  if,  as  the 
tale  goes  on,  you  find  he  had  some  human  love  in  him, 
remember  he  is  a  hunchback,  and  give  him  double  praise. 

The  duke,  whose  whole  life  was  a  panorama  of  gallant- 
ry, despised  his  conquests  ;  and,  being  handsome,  believed 
no  woman  could  withstand  him.  lie  was  as  heartless  as 
he  was  handsome,  and  he  had  no  affection  for  a  living 
soul,  unless,  indeed,  for  Rigoletto,  whom  he  loved  for  his 
power  of  satirizing  the  courtiers,  who  loved  Rigoletto 
accordingly. 

This  fool,  Rigoletto,  was  superstitious;  moreover,  he 
had  a  secret,  which  it  was  the  hope  of  his  life  to  keep 
from  that  terrible  court ;  for  a  fool,  a  jester,  a  hunchback, 
may  have  loves  and  secrets  like  other  men. 

The  duke  had  discovered  a  beautiful  girl,  whom  he  fol- 
lowed daily  as  she  went  to  prayers.  For  weeks  he 
followed  her  each  day,  and  yet  all  he  learned  was  that  she 
lived  in  a  mean  house  in  a  mean  street,  and  that  every 
day  the  same  unknown  man  visited  her. 


RIGOLETTO.  139 

He  still  knew  no  more ;  when,  on  a  certain  night,  he 
gave  a  grand  ball  at  his  palace.  A  happy,  happy  ball, 
where  each  man  trembled  as  the  giver  of  the  feast  turned 
eyes  upon  his  wife  or  daughter !  A  happy,  happy,  fete ! 
He  was  paying  the  Countess  Ceprano  great  attention, 
when  Rigoletto  entered  the  hall,  and  saw  the  husband  of 
the  lady  jealously  watching  them. 

"  What  troubles  you  count  ? "  said  the  fool,  smiling 
maliciously. 

Rigoletto  turned  away  gibing  at  the  courtiers,  crossed 
the  hall,  and  was  gone. 

Hardly  had*  he  left,  than  the  Lord  Marcello  stepped 
quickly  up  to  a  group,  declaring  he  had  great  news  to  tell 
them.  They  crowded  about  him,  wondering  what  he  had 
to  say.  'Twas  of  Rigoletto.  "What,  had  he  lost  his 
hump  ?  "  cried  one.  "  Had  he  become  straight  ?  "  cried 
another. 

"  No,  no,"  replied  the  lord.  ".Rigoletto,  Rigoletto  has 
a  mistress ! " 

They  all  laughed  merrily,  perhaps  a  little  cruelly,  for 
men  and  women  love  to  return  blow  for  blow.  "  What  a 
change,  from  a  hunchback  to  a  cupid."  They  were  yet 
laughing,  when  the  fool  passed  near  them  with  the  duke, 
who  was  still  thinking  of  the  Ceprano's  wife. 

"  Steal  her  away  ! "  said  the  fool. 

"  Easily  conceived,  but  not  easily  performed,"  replied 
the  duke. 

"  This  very  evening.  Have  you  no  prisons,  great  duke  ? 
Can  you  not  banish  him  ?  Or  take  his  head  ?  " 

u  What,  Ceprano's  head?"  asked  the  duke  aloud,  and 
turning  to  that  noble. 

«  Yes  —  what  is  it /good  for  ?  " 

The  count  drew  his  sword  as  the  duke  smiled,  and  the 
fool  affected  to  be  overcome  with  fear. 

"  Ah !  ah  !  he  is  very  amusing  to  night."  But  the  foul 
did  not  see  how  menacingly  the  courtiers  drew  together, 
and  frowned  at  him. 

The  duke  lightly  warned  the  fool  that  he  might  jest 
too  deeply,  and  that  the  count's  sword  might  end  his 
jokes. 

"  Bah !  who  shall  be  brave  enough  to  touch  the  duke's 
favorite  ?  " 


140  TALES    FROM    TIIE    OPEUAS. 

And  he  imitated  the  duke,  and  turned  away  from  the 
group  of  nobles,  not  noticing  their  angry  looks  and 
gestures. 

At  this  moment  an  aged  lord  appeared  at  the  door,  and 
violently  thrust  himself  into  the  hall,  though  the  servants 
tried  all  they  could  to  hold  him  back.  His  hair  was  white, 
his  limbs  trembling  —  his  was  another  family  the  duke 
had  dishonored. 

The  guests  started  with  surprise. 

"  I  will  see  the  duke,  and  even  here  blazon  forth  his 
crimes." 

"  I  will  see  the  duke  —  and  even  here  blazon  forth  his 
crimes,"  exclaimed  the  fool,  mockingly,  and,  as  well  as  he 
could,  imitating  the  grand  posture  of  the  aged  noble. 

"Poor   wretch!" Then,  turning  to  the  duke,  the 

lord  again  exclaimed  that  he  spoke  in  the  name  of  his 
dishonored  family,  and  called  for  justice. 

"  Justice  — justice !  "  continued  the  fool. 

"  Let  him  be  arrested,"  said  the  duke,  as  he  frowned 
upon  this  new  comer. 

"  He  is  mad,"  said  the  fool,  solemnly. 

"  He  is  mad,"  repeated  the  courtiers. 

"  Be  both  accursed,"  cried  the  old  lord  to  the  fool. 
.   The   soldiers   seized   him — "thou    and    thy   shameful 
master  —  who  can  laugh   at  a  father's  grief — be   both 
accursed." 

The  fool,  as  the  curse  was  uttered,  drew  on  one  side, 
put  his  hands  together  aflrightedly,  and  said  to  himself, 
his  superstition  all  dominant,  "He  cursed  me  —  he 
cursed  me."  - 

Meanwhile,  the  cowardly  courtiers  merely  looked  after 
the  doomed  lord  as  he  was  led  away. 

****** 

That  same  night,  when  the  weary  dancing  was  over, 
and  the  duke  no  more  required  his  fool,  Rigoletto  stole 
out,  and  went  quickly  to  an  obscure  part  of  the  city,  to  a 
high  thick  wall,  in  which  was  a  small  retiring  door. 

He  had  almost  reached  it,  his  head  drooping  at  the 
thought  of  the  terrible  curse,  when  a  ruffianly  man  jostled 
him.  "  Who  are  you  ?  Go  j  I  need  you  not." 


EIGOLETTO.  141 

"  Signer,  I  am  a  man  who  has  a  dagger  at  your  service, 
ready  at  a  word  ! " 

"  You  are  a  thief." 

"  No ;  but  a  man  who  for  money  will  rid  you  of  your 
rival.  You  have  a  rival." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"  Is  not  your  mistress  near  at  hand  ?  " 

The  fool  trembled  violently  for  a  little ;  but  recovering, 
he  hurriedly  asked  how  much  the  fellow  would  charge  to 
kill  a  man  ?  How  he  would  be  sure  to  slay  him  ? 

The  brigand  said  he  struck  his  victims  in  the  street,  or 
in  his  own  house. 

His  own  house  ?    How  was  that  ? 

Said  the  brigand  —  his  sister  danced  in  the  streets,  she 
decoyed  the  man  who  was  to  fall,  and,  by  his  faith,  the 
matter  was  at  an  end.  And  how  did  he  kill  ?  By  his 
faith,  noiselessly,  with  the  sword  which  he  then  carried. 

The  fool  hurriedly  asked  where  he  could  meet  him 
again,  if  he  might  want  him  —  was  told  here,  at  that  very 
spot,  on  any  night.  Rigoletto  gave  some  money,  and  the 
ruffian  slouched  away. 

Instead  of  opening  the  door,  the  fool  stood  looking 
after  the  brigand,  and  thinking  what  difference  was  there 
much  between  them  ?  If  the  brigand  wounded  with  his 
steel,  he,  the  fool,  thrust  and  wounded  with  his  tongue. 
Then  again  he  thought  of  the  terrible  curse,  and  turned 
towards  a  gloomy  house  at  hand  —  the  house  of  the  very 
man  who  had  but  now  cursed  him.  Then  he  thought 
that  if  he  were  bad,  'twas  not  his  will,  but  the  wills  of 
nature  and  of  men.  To  be  deformed,  to  be  a  fool,  to  be 
condemned  to  laugh  against  his  will,  never  to  be  pitied, 
never  to  gain  tears !  Then  he  frowned  as  he  thought  of 
the  cowardly  and  hateful  courtiers,  and  then  again  he  was 
thinking  of  the  awful  curse — for  surely  a  curse  by  one 
condemned  to  death  might  live  —  might  live !  He 
trembled  as  he  asked  himself  why  this  thought  so  clung 
to  him  ?  Then  warily  he  opened  the  door  and  crept  in  — 
into  a  couityard,  a  jealous  courtyard,  which  hid  what  it 
held  from  the  common  gaze  by  great  high  walls. 

To  him  ran  a  beautiful  girl,  who  kissed  and  embraced 
him.  A  mistress  ?  No !  no !  His  daughter  —  bis  daughter, 


142  TALES   FROM   THE   OPERAS. 

whom  he  so  loved,  who  made  him  human,  who  made  him 
fear  the  curse !  The  mother  of  that  girl  had  married  him 
for  pity's  sake,  and  the  poor  fool's  daughter  knew  not 
what  her  father  was.  She  often  wondered ;  and  now,  on 
this  very  night;  she  no  sooner  saw  him  than  she  began 
asking  him  gaily  to  tell  her  the  long  promised  secret. 
She  prayed  him  to  tell  her  who  had  been  her  mother, 
what  he  himself,  her  father,  was. 

He  confusedly  parried  her  questions,  and  told  her  hur- 
riedly that  she  must  never  leave  the  house  —  never 
except  to  prayers.  She  answered  that  for  now  three 
months  he  had  ever  spoken  so ;  should  she  never,  never 
see  the  city  ?  Again  he  only  warned  her  never  to  leave 
the  house,  and  trembled  as  he  thought  that  if  he  lost  her 
they  would  only  laugh  at  a  poor  fool's  loss. 

Giovanna  was  his  daughter's  companion  and  servant 
through  the  weary  days,  and  as  she  now  came  from  the 
house  into  the  courtyard  he  ran  to  her,  and  nervously 
bade  her  guard  his  Gilda  —  his  only  child.  Truth  to  tell, 
the  memory  of  the  curse  sat  heavily  on  him,  and  he 
trembled  greatly. 

Suddenly  he  thought  he  heard  a  noise  at  the  gate;  in 
the  dark,  thick  night  he  rashly  opened  it,  and  ran  two  or 
three  steps  forward.  Before  he  could  return,  a  figure  had 
glided  into  his  stronghold  and  reached  the  shelter  of  a 
tree.  Is  there  nothing  that  will  warn  him  of  the  thief — 
the  thief  that  came  in  that  night  to  steal  away  his  treas- 
ure ?  Is  there  nothing  to  prompt  him  to  stay  at  home 
that  night  — near  her  to  guard  her?  He  b,as  come  to  the 
house  but  for  a  few  bfc st  moments  in  which  to  see  her  ; 
he  hastens  to  creep  back  to  the  palace  to  play  the  fool 
again.  This  is  one  of  the  desolate  nights  when  he  may 
not  creep  to  her  door,  and  watch  like  a  faithful  dog  till 
morning.  He  must  return  to  the  weary  palace  prison. 
"  Good  night,  dear  Gilda,"  he  says.  The  girl  pouts,  but 
the  father  kisses  her  frowns  away,  and  says  again,  "  Good 
night,  dear  daughter,"  and  unwisely  turns  away,  and  pulls 
to  the  creaking  door. 

"His  daughter,"  thought  the  thief,  who  had  stolen 
through  the  doorway.  "  His  daughter,"  thought  the 
duke,  for  it  is  he  — "The  fool,  then,  has  a  daughtei." 


EIGOLETTO.  143 

So,  while  the  father  crept  back  to  court,  the  duke  was 
trying  to  gain  the  love  of  his  innocent  daughter,  whisper- 
ing that  he  was  a  poor  student  who  thought  only  of  her 
—  "Gilda." 

At  last  the  noble  liar  stole  away  again,  and  then,  Gilda, 
thinking  more  of  the  supposed  student  than  of  her  fathei, 
turned  from  the  gate  to  which  she  had  walked  with  the 
duke,  and  moved  towards  the  house.  She  had  to  ascend 
a  score  of  steps  to  reach  a  terrace,  past  which  was  the 
house,  and  as  she  arrived  on  the  highest  of  those  steps, 
she  was  seen  from  the  dark  street  by  several  men,  who 
said  amongst  each  other,  "  See,  that  is  she.  How  beauti- 
ful she  is.  That  is  Rigoletto's  mistress ! " 

At  this  moment  the  poor  fool  returned  to  his  gate. 
"  Why  do  I  return  ?  Alas  !  the  curse,  the  curse !  " 

As  he  stood,  the  men  in  the  street  came  near  to  Rigo- 
letto,  and  so  drew  his  attention  to  them.  They  knew 
him  in  a  moment  —  the  hunch  showed  plain.  They  were 
lords  of  the  court ;  and  amongst  them  was  Ceprano,  the 
count,  who  had  drawn  his  sword  upon  the  jester,  and 
who  now  again  drew  it.  "  Softly,"  whispered  one  to 
him ; "  if  he  is  killed  where  will  be  our  laughter  to-mor- 
row !  "  Then  the  speaker  turned  and  told  Rigoletto  — 
who  started  as  he  spoke  —  they  were  there  to  steal  from 
Ceprano  his  countess  —  that  the  fool  must  help  them. 
They  had  the  keys  of  the  house,  they  said.  See,  the 
speaker  handed  to  the  trembling  fool  the  keys. 

The  curse  —  he  still  thought  of  the  curse  as  he  took 
the  keys.  What  if  they  had  come  to  steal  his  treasure  ? 
For  a  moment  he  held  these  keys  listlessly;  then  sudden- 
ly he  swept  a  trembling  fore-finger  over  the  loop  of  one 
of  them  —  and  as  he  did  so  he  half  knelt  and  nearly 
wept  aloud  —  for  on  the  friendly  steel  he  felt  the  count's 
heraldic  crest.  So  they  were  not  deceiving  him  —  they 
had  come  not  to  the  house  where  lived  his  Gilda  —  but  to 
the  other  —  the  other.  Then,  full  of  thanks,  he  had  to 
laugh  and  make  a  sorry  jest  —  because  of  their  adventure. 

"  Come,"  said  the  same  speaker,  u  aid  us,"  and  he 
placed  on  the  fool's  face  a  mask,  and  bound  it  about  his 
head  with  a  handkerchief — and  the  next  moment  the 
poor  creature  was  holding  the  ladder  by  which  they 
climbed  to  steal  his  daughter. 


144  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

Standing  there,  he  heard  the  crash  of  wood  as  they 
forced  a  window.  ("Why,  if  they  had  the  keys,"  he 
thought,  "  did  they  want  a  ladder  ?  why  break  into  the 
house?")  Then  for  a  few  moments  there  was  silence. 
Then  a  door  opened,  feet  trampled  near  him,  he  heard 
even  a  smothered  cry.  Still  he  remained  holding  the  lad- 
der, still  he  saw  nothing,  for  a  handkerchief,  unknown  to 
himself,  was  hanging  over  his  eyes.  Then  the  steps 
sounded  more  distant,  and  at  last  were  lost  altogether. 

He  waited  a  little,  and  was  then  startled  as  his  wander- 
ing hand  found  the  handkerchief  hanging  loosely  over  his 
eyes.  He  flung  it  from  him,  and  oh  !  by  the  faint  light, 
he  saw,  the  whole  terrible  truth.  The  open  garden  gate, 
—  a  scarf  that  had  fallen  from  her  shoulders  as  she  was 
•carried  away — the  desolate  home ! 

He  ran  in  —  round  the  garden  like  a  chased  rat  —  up 
the  steps,  till  he  reached  the  house  —  into  it  —  tore  at  the 
serving-woman  —  dragged  her  forth  silently  and  without 
a  word  —  then  at  last,  finding  his  voice,  he  cried,  "  The 
curse  —  the  curse,"  and  fell  upon  the  ground,  mercifully 
insensible. 


CHAPTER  H. 

OH  !  the  weary,  weary  hours  till  daylight ;  till  he  could 
search  through  the  city  for  his  daughter.  The  age  of 
fp-ar,  with  but  a  faint  poor  hope  to  bear  him  through  it. 
Set  the  poor  fool  who  has  mocked  the  aged  lord  —  see 
him  wandering  up  and  down  the  house ;  then  out  into 
the  streets ;  and  then  back  again  into  the  house,  afraid  to 
leave  it!  The  house  —  how  changed!  And  when  he 
sees  anything  dearly  associated  with  her,  he  touches  it, 
kisses  it  —  as  though  she  were  dead,  and  for  her  sake  he 
loved  it!  Wearily,  wearily  dragging  on  life,  till  the 
crowd  of  courtiers  met  to  receive  the  duke,  on  his  rising 
for  the  day.  Then  the  fool's  gay  dress  was  donned  again, 
covering  his  breaking  heart,  and  the  cap  and  bells  mocking 
bis  deep,  loving  sighs. 

"  Good  morning,  Rigoletto  —  what  news  ?  " 


KIGOLETTO.  145 

"  News  ?  you  are  nearer  hell  to-day  than  yesterday,  by 
a  score  of  hours.  (Oh  !  my  child !  where  art  thou,  oh  ! 
my  child!)" 

"See,"  they  whispered  to  each  other,  "see  how  his 
eyes  search  for  her.  Mark  how  hardly  he  draws  his 
breath ! " 

Then  turning  to  them,  he  went  on  lightly,  "  You  look 
well,  gentlemen.  Last,  night's  cold  air,  then,  did  you  no 
harm  ?" 

"Last  night,"  said  one,  "I  slept  well  through  the 
night." 

For  an  instant  he  thought  perhaps  it  was  all  a  dream ; 
but  the  next  moment  he  saw  a  mask  and  a  handkerchief 
lying  on  a  table.  "  See,"  they  said  to  one  another,  as  he 
walked  negligently  to  the  table,  "  see  how  he  marks  all 
things ! " 

Then  he  saw  the  handkerchief  was  not  hers,  and  still 
wondering  if  she  were  in  the  palace,  he  asked  jauntily, 
« Is  the  duke  still  asleep  ?  " 

As  he  spoke,  a  page  entered,  and  said  the  duchess 
desired  to  see  the  duke. 

Said  a  courtier,   "  He  is  asleep," 

"  But,"  said  the  page,  "  he  was  awake  not  a  minute 
since." 

"  Canst  thou  not  understand  ?  He  would  not  now  bo 
questioned." 

The  fool  heard  this  conversation,  and  guessed  its  mean- 
ing. "  Ah !  then  she  is  here ! " 

"She  — who?" 

"  The  poor  girl  you  stole  from  under  my  roof." 

"You  are  mad.  If  you  have  lost  your  mistress,  'tis 
not  within  these  walls  you  will  find  her." 

For  a  moment  he  stood  before  them,  jauntily  and  smil- 
ing as  ever ;  then  the  revengeful  lords  might  have  surely 
been  satisfied,  for  the  mocked  fool  was  at  their  feet. 

"This  is  a  new  jest  for  thee,  Rigoletto." 

All  the  small  silver  bells  upon  his  head-dress  rang  as 
he  clasped  his  hands  together.  "  She  is  my  daughter,  she 
is  my  daughter.  If,  if  I  have  offended  you,  you  are  great 
lords,  and  will  not  be  revenged  on  a  poor  fool." 

Then  he  started  to  his  feet  as  several  courtiers  looked 


146  TALES  FKOM  THE  OPERAS. 

meaningly  towards  a  door,  and  ran  towards  it.  But  they 
pressed  upon  him,  and  drove  him  back,  lie  battled  with 
them  hard,  he  threatened,  yelled,  overthrew  them.  All 
to  no  purpose  ;  he  was  still  far,  far  from  the  door.  Then 
he  wept,  and  in  his  wretchedness  flattered  them,  and  said 
he  knew'  they  had  feeling  hearts,  and  again  asked  them 
where  was  his  daughter.  And  then  again  he  fell  upon 
his  knees  before  them,  before  them  who  had  so  often 
flinched  from  him,  and  lowered  his  head  humbly. 

He  was  still  kneeling  when  the  door  opened,  and 
through  it  came  his  daughter  —  white,  trembling,  fright- 
ened. 

She  saw  and  ran  to  him,  as  he  sprang  from  the  ground. 

"  My  daughter,  my  daughter !  See  you,  my  lords,  she 
is  my  child,  my  only  child  !  Oh,  be  not  afraid,  daughter, 
these  are  all  noble  lords ;  it  was  only  in  jest,  only  in  jest. 
Why  even  I  wept,  but  you  see  I  am  laughing  now !  But 
why  dost  thou  weep,  why  dost  thou  weep  ?  " 

She  made  no  answer,  only  hid  her  face  lower  and  lower. 

Then  he  flung  himself  down  in  a  chair,  half  in  mad 
jest,  half  in  real  madness,  and  in  a  pompous  voice,  cried 
out,  "  Begone,  ye  people,  and  bid  the  duke  not  approach 
while  I  remain  here." 

They  began  to  laugh,  for  the  vengeance  was  complete ; 
there  was  no  more  need  to  bar  the  door.  Saying,  fools 
and  children  must  he  humored,  these  great  lords  de- 
parted. 

Then  she  confessed  to  him  how  each  day  going  to  church 
she  saw  a  handsome  stranger;  how  this  stranger  had 
come  only  the  night  before  and  told  her  he  was  poor  and 
loved  her.  Then  the  men  who  had  just  left  them  tore 
her  from  her  home ;  and  the  rest  of  her  history  was 
miserable  silence. 

A  moment  he  held  her  from  him;  then  he  laid  her 
head  upon  his  breast  and  caressed  her,  and  absolved  him- 
self of  his  sins  by  bitter,  bitter  tears.  So  then,  heaven 
did  not  hear  his  prayer,  that  the  curse  should  fall  on  him 
alone ;  it  had,  indeed,  fallen  on  her.  He  stooped  down, 
and  kissed  her  as  she  lay  in  his  arms ;  then  he  bade  her 
look  up,  and  told  her  that  they  would  leave  that  place 
for  ever. 


RIGOLETTO.  147 

Still  she  was  weeping,  and  hiding  her  eyes  from  him, 
her  father,  when  the  door  opened,  and  there  stood  the 
aged  count,  who  on  the  day  before  had  cursed  him.  He 
was  surrounded  by  soldiers  —  had  been  condemned,  and 
was  now  being  led  off  to  prison. 

He  did  not  see  the  fool ;  but  as  he  came  near  to  the 
fool  he  muttered,  "  So  my  curse  was  vain  ;  this  duke  still 
lives.  Is  there  no  hand  to  be  found  to  slay  him  ?  " 

"Here,  here,"  whispered  the  fool,  "here."  And  though 
he  rocked  with  fear  he  came  a  step  forward,  his  daughter 
still  in  his  encircling  arms. 

The  next  moment  the  one  father  had  passed  from  the 
room,  while  the  other  again  bent  his  head,  wept  over,  and 
kissed  his  lost,  and  yet  found,  daughter. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  STORMY  angry  night ;  the  wind  weeping  and  whist- 
ling high  lip  in  the  sky,  and  a  thick  stifling  vapor  crawl- 
ing over  the  earth  —  over  the  whispering  muddy  river ; 
winding  in  and  out  the  gay  palace  like  a  poisonous  ser- 
pent. Near  to  this  sickening  river  was  a  cracked  ruined 
house  through  the  crevices  in  the  walls  of  which  might 
be  observed  a  flickering  light. 

No  house  was  near  this  wretched  hut,  which  was  called 
an  inn.  Within  this  place  lived  the  ruffian  who  had 
accosted  Rigoletto  on  the  night  when  his  daughter  was 
stolen  away.  He  was  cleaning  a  leathern  belt  and  sing- 
ing softly  at  his  work. 

Who  are  these  wayfarers,  toiling  along  the  dark  road 
to  the  ruined  inn  ?  They  are  the  fool  and  his  daughter. 

She  still  loved  the  duke ;  and  the  fool,  hoping  to  kill 
the  awful  passion,  had  brought  her  to  this  lonely  spot. 
He  told  her  to  creep  softly  to  the  house,  and  look  in 
through  the  broken  door.  As  she  did  so,  the  duke  him- 
self, now  in  a  new  disguise,  came  quickly  along,  and  up 
to  the  door.  She  shrank  back  from  him,  and  he  passed 
into  the  inn,  ordering  a  room  and  wine. 

Then  as  she  and  her  father  stood  shivering  near  tho 


door,  he  began  singing  in  dispraise  of  woman.  They  saw 
the  brigand  lay  upon  the  table  some  bottles  and  glasses. 
That  done,  he  struck  the  low  ceiling  several  times,  and 
immediately  a  girl  came  running  into  the  room  — a  gipsey 
girl  who  danced  about  the  streets.  The  duke  ran  to  her 
as  she  avoided  him,  and  the  brigand  came  cautiously  out 
upon  the  road. 

"  Shall  he  live,  Signer  Rigoletto  ? "  whispered  the 
ruffian. 

"Wait  —  wait,"  replied  the  father.  And  both  men 
spoke  so  softly,  that  Gilda  did  not  hear.  She  did  not  care 
to  hear,  as  she  looked  once  more  on  him  whom  she  had 
so  dearly  loved  when  she  thought  him  a  poor  student. 

"  Good,"  said  the  bandit,  and  went  out  slowly  into  the 
darkness. 

Then  as  the  two  stood  there  miserably,  the  duke  began 
laughing  and  chatting  with  the  gipsey  girl.  Soon  Gilda 
was  weeping,  as  was  also  her  father.  Yet  still  within  the 
hut  continued  the  laughter  and  the  singing. 

"  Thou  art  sure  now,  he  loves  thee  not  —  thou  art  sure 
now.  Hear  me :  we  will  leave  this  country  at  once.  Go 
thou  home,  dress  thyself  in  the  clothing  of  a  nobleman, 
my  child,  and  fly  to  Verona.  Thou  knowest  where  to  go 
when  thou  art  there.  I  will  come  to  thee  to-morrow." 

"  Now  —  come  with  me  now." 

"  Now  ?  No,  not  now."  He  spoke  with  terrible  hesi- 
tation. 

The  girl  kissed  her  father  and  went  towards  their  house. 
Through  the  gloom  he  watched  her  and  saw  her  pass  the 
garden  gate.  Then  he  searched  about  for  the  bravo. 
The  assassin  was  lounging  at  the  corner  of  the  house,  and 
at  a  motion  from  the  fool  he  came  forward. 

Eagerly  Rigoletto  put  money  into  his  hand,  saying  the 
rest  should  be  his  when  the  man  was  dead.  Then  he 
turned  away,  saying  that  at  midnight  he  would  return. 

The  bravo  carelessly  replied  that  he  had  no  need  of 
help,  he  could,  alone,  cast  the  body  into  the  river. 

"No,"  said  the  fool,  suddenly  stopping ;  "let  that  be  my 
portion  of  the  work." 

"  Good,"  said  the  assassin,  carelessly;  "who  is  he  ?  " 

**  His  name  is  Crime  and  mine  is  Punishment." 


RIGOLETTO.  149 

The  bravo  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  then  carelessly 
opened  the  door  of  the  hut,  and  entered,  while  the  fool 
turned,  and  with  downcast  head,  moved  slowly  away, 
afraid  to  go  home  till  the  vengeance  was  completed. 

Loud  roared  the  storm ;  the  lightnings  lit  up  the  hovel, 
and  the  wavering  thunder  rolled  incessantly.  Yet  had 
the  assassin  no  fear. 

,  The  duke  said  he  should  remain  all  night,  and  bade  the 
new  comer  leave  them.  But  the  gipsey  girl  prayed  the 
young  duke  to  depart.  Said  the  bravo,  he  should  be  glad 
to  place  his  room  at  the  stranger's  disposal,  and  he  hid  the 
golden  money  the  fool  had  given  him. 

The  duke  attended  by  the  bravo,  ascended  a  ricketty 
flight  of  stairs  to  a  room,  more  dilapidated,  if  possible, 
than  the  one  below. 

Saying  it  was  like  sleeping  in  the  open  air,  the  noble 
flung  down  his  hat  and  sword,  fell  upon  the  bed,  and  was 
soon  asleep. 

The  ruffian  by  that  time  was  drinking  the  wine  the 
duke  had  left.  At  last  he  said  slowly  —  "  Go  up,  and  if 
he  sleeps,  bring  aAvay  his  sword." 

The  gipsey  girl  obeyed  sorrowingly,  for  the  stranger 
was  so  handsome  that  she  had  gi-own  to  feel  some  pity 
for  him. 

As  she  stole  up  the  stairs  another  girl  was  near  at  hand 
—  the  wretched  Gilda ;  who,  disguised  in  the  clothes  of 
a  page,  came  creeping  towards  the  inn. 

Nearer  and  nearer  till  she  was  close  to  the  door  and 
pressing  it.  Looking  through  the  crevice,  she  saw  the 
girl  coming  down  with  the  SAVord  glittering  in  her  hand. 

"Do  not  kill  him  —  do  not  kill  him,"  cried  the  gipsey 
girl. 

"  Kill  him  !  "  cried  the  fool's  daughter. 

There,  still  listening,  she  heard  the  gipsey  tempt  him, 
saying,  that  when  the  fool  came  back  he  could  take  his 
money  and  kill  him.  But  the  bravo  angrily  cried  that  his 
honor  was  dear  to  him;  he  would  not  kill  the  fool,  he 
would  slay  the  stranger.  Rigoletto  had  paid  him  well. 

Gilda  shuddered  as  she  listened;  so  her  father  had  paid 
the  bravo  to  kill  the  duke. 

Again   the  gipsey  girl   prayed  for  the   stranger's  life. 


150 


TALES   FROM   TOE    OPERAS. 


Again  the  assassin  refused.  At  last  he  said  quickly  that 
if  a  traveller  came  past  he  would  slay  him  in  his  place  — 
the  fool  could  not  tell  who  might  be  in  the  sack. 

Then  the  gipsey  wept  as  she  said  there  was  no  hope  of 
a  traveller  passing  while  the  storm  raged  so  fiercely. 

Why  does  she  tremble  and  draw  back  from  the  crevice  ? 
What  ?  shall  this  woman,  this  dancing  gipsey,  weep  and 
pray  for  him  ?  And  shall  she,  Gilda,  do  nothing  to  save 
him  ?  Who  is  this  woman  that  she  should  weep  for  him  ? 
Will  she  —  this  gipsey  —  die  for  his  sake?  Yet  she, 
Gilda,  could.  Again  she  looked,  and  saw  the  gipsey  still 
kneeling  and  weeping.  Then  she  would  die  for  his  sake. 
Thus  her  love  and  jealousy  had  lost  her. 

The  next  moment  she  had  entered  —  the  storm  raging 
more  fiercely  than  before. 

Walking  proudly  and  fearlessly  through  the  night  air, 
came  the  fool,  sure  that  by  this  time  his  vengeance  was 
complete  —  the  vengeance  for  which  he  had  waited  an 
age  of  grief. 

Forth  from  the  hut  came  the  bandit,  dragging  a  heavy 
sack.  There  he  lay,  then  —  dead;  there  was  the  chink- 
ing of  money  over  the  still  burden,  and  there  the  bravo 
had  left  the  fool  alone  with  the  destroyer.  "  So  then," 
thought  Rigoletto,  "  here  was  the  great  duke,  lying  dead 
at  his,  the  poor  fool's  feet."  Then  he  thought  he  should 
like  to  see  the  face  of  his  enemy,  before  he  cast  him  into 
the  black  waters. 

Yet  no,  he  would  not  like  to  see  his  face  ;  so  he  began 
drawing  away  the  sack,  when  —  merciful  powers !  —  he 
heard  the  voice  of  the  duke  singing  gaily,  as  he  moved 
away,  saved,  in  the  distance. 

"But  then  whose  body  lay  at  his  feet?    Whose?" 

With  a  might  of  horror,  he  tore  open  the  mouth  of  the 
sack ;  and  there,  within  it,  lay  —  his  daughter ! 

"My  daughter!  Heaven!  my  Gilda!  Yet  no,  she  is 
now  on  her  way  to  Verona.  Is  this  a  dream?  Oh,  no! 
no  dream.  My  daughter!  oh,  my  daughter !" 

In  an  agony  of  grief  he  ran  to  the  door  of  the  hut, 
and  beat  at  it,  when  he  heard  a  voice  —  her  voice  —  cull- 
ing to  him. 

u  SHE  LIVES  —  SHE  LIVES  !  on !  SHE  LIVES  ! " 


EIGOLETTO.  151 

He  was  down  at  her  side  again,  tearing  her  from  the 
shameful  sack  with  his  trembling  hands. 

"  My  father !  oh,  my  father ! " 

"'Tis  thou,  and  they  have  stricken  thee." 

"  They  have  stabbed  me  —  here  — here." 

And  wearily  she  pressed  her  hands  about  her  heart,  as 
the  wretched  man  drew  back,  saying  to  himself,  that  he 
—  he  himself  had  killed  her. 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  still  wearily  pressing  her 
breast. 

"  Speak  —  speak  to  me !  oh,  daughter ! " 

"  I  am  almost  too  weak  to  speak,  dear  father.  Lay  thy 
hand  upon  my  head,  and  bless  me.  If  I  may  always 
think  of  thee,  I  will.  Near  my  mother,  I  will  pray  for 
thee  —  near  my  mother." 

What  is  this  with  which  he  is  suddenly  stricken ;  what 
conviction  is  growing  on  his  mind  as  his  eyes  grow  yet 
wilder,  and  he  grasps  his  throat  with  his  trembling  hand  ? 

"  My  child,  do  not  leave  me.  Have  pity  on  me,  tarry 
yet  a  little  longer  —  leave  me  not  in  the  world  alone  — 
oh  I  —  and  I  am  thy  father  —  bid  thee  stay ! " 

She  does  not  answer.  He  bends  over  her,  as  the  dread 
conviction  forces  itself  upon  him. 

«  DEAD  !  DEAD  !  DEAD  ! " 

He  wraps  his  hands  round  his  head,  looks  wildly  to  the 
lowering  sky,  and  cries :  — 

"  THE   CURSE THE   UNDYING   CURSE  !  " 

Then  he  speaks  no  more. 

Mercy  for  him  as  -his  breath  grows  thick  —  mercy  for 
him  as  he  clasps  his  helpless  hands  together  prayerfully. 
Mercy  —  mercy ! 

His  faults  are  not  all  his  own.  He  hath  but  mocked 
the  world  as  it  hath  mocked  him !  Who  would  not  hate 
where  he  is  scorned  ?  Oh  —  many  are  forgiven  who  have 
sinned  more  deeply. 

See  the  clasped  hands  —  the  bloodless  lips.  Mercy  — 
mercy ! 

So  at  last  it  hath  fallen  on  him  —  the  grace  of  forgive- 
ness. 


I    PURITANI.    (BELLINI.) 

THE  PURITANS. 

CHAPTER  I. 

IMMEDIATELY  succeeding  the  execution  of  Charles  L, 
General  Walton  was  in  command  of  a  fortress,  then 
standing  not  far  from  Plymouth.  One  of  his  officers  w:\s 
his  brother,  Colonel  George  Walton.  This  man  loved  his 
brother's  daughter,  as  many  an  unmarried  uncle  will  love 
nephews  and  nieces,  and  with  an  affection  almost  equal  to 
that  of  the  best  of  fathers ! 

And  it  is  also  true  that  this  daughter,  Elvira,  loved  her 
uncle  even  more  than  she  loved  her  own  father,  the  gen- 
eral. This  young  lady  was  promised  in  marriage,  to  a 
puritan  officer,  Captain  Richard  Forth,  but  it  may  be 
stated  that  she  herself  had  favored  the  pretentions  of 
Lord  Arthur  Talbot,  a  strong,  unyielding  royalist. 

Just  after  the  death  of  Charles  the  First,  a  lady  arrived 
at  the  fortress,  and  was  received  by  General  Walton  as 
the  friend  of  his  daughter  —  the  friend  of  his  daughter 
only  in  this,  that  a  dear  friend  had  recommended  the 
unknown  lady  to  his  care. 

She  called  herself  Madame  Henrietta,  and  no  more. 
They  thought  her  a  French  lady  —  and  indeed  her  slight- 
ly imperfect  English  proved  her  to  be  a  foreigner.  But 
they  asked  no  questions.  She  was  franked  by  the  dear 
friend,  and  so  she  was  made  welcome. 

She  soon  became  the  companion  of  Elvira,  who,  young 
and  light-headed,  would  kiss,  torment,  and  delight  this 
unknown  lady,  all  within  a  minute.  And  thus  things 
were  when  the  General  gave  way  to  the  united,  entreaties 
of  his  brother  and  Madame  Henrietta,  and  recalled  tho 
promise  of  his  daughter's  hand  to  the  Puritan  Colonel. 


I  PUEITANI.  163 

Imagine  the  curtain  of  our  story  drawn  up,  and  what 
do  you  see  ?  A  platform  of  the  fortress,  the  solemn  sen- 
tries walking  to  and  fro.  The  sun  rises,  and  then  these 
honest,  straightforward  religious  puritans,  sing  their  usual 
morning  hynin. 

This  service  over,  the  gates  of  the  fortress  are  opened 
to  the  market  girls,  with  their  fresh,  demure  faces,  and 
their  neat,  almost  sombre,  garments. 

There  is  much  talking  about  the  young  lady  Elvira, 
the  governor's  daughter,  and  how  she  was  going  to  be 
married,  and  who  to,  and  what  he  was  like — but  all  this 
little  tittle-tattle  was  carried  on  gravely,  and  with  a 
demure  air. 

But  pacing  apart  is  Captain  Richard  Forth  —  his  puri- 
tan heart  strongly  beating  against  the  governor's  injustice 
in  recalling  his  promise,  and  the  shame  that  a  puritan 
leader  should  marry  his  daughter  to  one  of  the  godless 
cavaliers. 

Xay  —  he  speaks  his  complaints  out  aloud  —  whereon 
Robertson,  a  fellow  officer,  tells  him  to  wear  a  fair  face 
—  there  are  his  country  and  his  soul  to  live  for  yet. 
"  Open  thy  heart  to  me." 

" '  Tis  not  a  righteous  act,  I  say.  He  hath  promised 
me  the  maiden  —  and  now  I  have  returned,  he  doth  recall 
his  word." 

"Heaven  is  a  bride  who  never  tumeth  away  from  the 
true  lover." 

"Death  were  welcome.** 

"  I  would  fain  death  passed  over  thee  if  thou  art  in  that 
frame,  Richard  Forth." 

"  I  have  lost  her  —  I  have  lost  her !  '* 

And  thereby  perchance  thou  hast  gained  much. 
Heaven  is  merciful  and  all-seeing.  Hark  !  dost  hear  the 
good  march  —  embrace  thy  good  sword  — '  twill  not  fail 
thee." 

"  But  my  weak  arm  may,  my  friend." 

"  Shame  on  thee,  Richard  Forth  —  methinks  thou  art  a 
coward." 

"  No,  friend,  no  !  not  a  coward,  but  weak." 

And  the  two  friends  turned  towards  the  castle. 
7* 


154  TALES  FROM  THE  OPEBAS. 


CHAPTER  H. 

THAT  same  day  Colonel  George  Walton  was  sitting 
•with  his  niece,  Elvira,  and  chatting  with  her  about  the 
marriage.  The  leaven  of  puritanism  was  not  so  severely 
bitter  in  high  as  in  low  life.  Among  the  latter  there  wag 
still  left  something  like  cheerfulness  and  blithe  talk. 

Sitting  down  near  his  niece,  the  uncle  asked  why  she 
looked  so  sad  ? 

" I  am  thinking,  second  father.5* 

"And  of  what,  Elvira?" 

M  Daughter,  always  call  me  daughter,  second  father." 

"  Well  then,  daughter.  So,  to-day,  you  are  to  be  a 
bride!" 

The  uncle  then  playfully  supposed  that  'twas  the  puri- 
tan lover  who  was  to  be  the  bridegroom;  whereat  the 
young  lady  protested,  but  the  uncle  soon  uttered  the 
talismanic  name,  Arthur. 

They  were  still  talking  when  a  trumpet  call  was  heard 
without  the  fortress. 

A  happy  sound,  for  it  announced  the  arrival  of  the 
bridegroom  —  Lord  Arthur  Talbot,  in  reality,  but  plain 
Master  Arthur  Talbot  in  those  puritan  times. 

Soon  the  young  lord  was  within  the  room  where  were 
waiting  for  him  the  gentle  Elvira  and  her  good  uncle 
Colonel  George  —  not  the  plain  little  room  where  they 
had  been  chatting,  but  in  the  chief  hall  of  the  castle, 
where  armor  glistened  on  the  walls,  and  from  the  win- 
dows of  which  could  be  seen  the  bristling  fortifications. 

He  met  her,  proud  of  himself  and  of  her,  and  dressed 
gaily,  in  defiance  of*  popular  taste.  And,  truth  to  tell,  but 
few  in  the  great  room  could  compare  in  demeanor  or  good 
looks,  with  Lord  Arthur,  or  rather  Master  Talbot. 

Among  the  ladies  present  was  Madame  Henrietta, 
bustling  about  from  place  to  place  like  a  careful  house- 
keeper. She  did  not  notice  that  a  messenger  came  rapid- 
ly to  the  general  with  a  letter,  nor  did  she  mark  that  as 
he  read  it  he  started  and  then  looked  up  at  her.  Nor  did 
she  hear  the  order  he  gave  to  let  no  female  pass  from  the 
castle  without  an  order  from  himself —  except,  of  course, 


I  PURITANI.  155 

the  marriage  party.  For  the  marriage  was  to  take  place 
at  the  neighboring  village  church.  The  messenger  bowed 
low  and  left  the  room,  and  still  Madame  Henrietta  was 
bustling  about,  busy  and  cheerful. 

Turning  to  his  daughter  and  Arthur,  the  general  said, 
he  should  not  be  able  to  attend  the  ceremony.  And  he 
was  presently  in  deep  conversation  with  several  of  his 
gentlemen.  Suddenly  he  turned  to  madame. 

"  Lady  —  a  parliamentary  order  compels  me  to  depart 
with  you  for  London  —  have  no  fear." 

Those  about  her  saw  Madame  Henrietta  start  and  turn 
pale,  but  they  did  not  think  much  of  the  matter ;  and, 
being  bidden  to  the  feast,  were  soon  moving  from  the  room. 

Arthur  heard  the  intimation  given  by  the  general,  and 
said,  naturally  enough,  to  the  colonel,  "  Is  she  a  friend  of 
the  Stuarts  ?  " 

"  She  is,  I  believe,  suspected,"  replied  the  discreet 
colonel,  turning  away. 

The  young  bridegroom  looked  pityingly  at  Madame, 
and  she  saw  that  he  did  so.  As  the  company  were  leav- 
ing the  room  Arthur  came  up  to  the  lady,  and  began 
talking  idly  to  her,  but  when  the  room  was  empty  of  all 
but  themselves  —  when  the  little  bride  had  flown  to  her 
room,  and  the  general  had  gone  to  .consult  with  his 
officers  —  she  said  in  answer  to  some  question  of  his, 
«  Cavalier ! " 

Quickly  he  answered,  "You  may  trust  me,  lady. 
Speak,  speak." 

"  May  I  speak,  even  if  my  head  is  in  danger  ?  " 

"You  shudder.  Be  not  afraid.  Speak,  whoever  you 
are ;  I  will  save  you.  Speak  softly,  or  thou  mayest  be 
heard." 

"  Save  me !  too  late.  The  fate  of  Charles  will  be  the 
fate  of  his  wife." 

"  The  queen,  the  queen ! "  the  young  lord  whispered, 
half  in  respect,  half  in  fear,  and  he  sank  upon  his  knee." 

" '  Tis  a  mockery  to  kneel  to  me." 

"  I  swear  to  save  your  majesty,  or  be  lost  myself." 

"  My  lord,  my  lord,  you  speak  vainly.  Leave  me.  You 
cannot  save  me,  and  would  involve  yourself  in  ruin. 
Rise,  sir,  rise ! " 


156  TALES  FROM  THE  OPEEA8. 

He  immediately  obeyed,  and  stood  humbly  before  1  er. 

"Well,  my  lord?" 

u  I  will  save  your  majesty." 

She  turned  hopelessly  away,  but  the  next  moment  she 
was  smiling  cheerfully,  as  Elvira,  holding  a  white  lace  veil 
in  her  hand,  came  running  up  to  her  companion  of  so 
many  pleasant  weeks. 

"Am  I  not  charming?  Am  I  not  as  white  as  snow? 
Am  I  not  like  a  lily?  Ah,  ah!  This  is  my  wedding 
dress.;  and  my  hair,  Signer  Arthur,  is  perfumed  with  the 
roses  thou  hast  brought  me ;  and  on  my  neck  are  the 
pearls  thou  gavest  me." 

They  both  praised  her  and  her  dress,  but  the  young 
coquette  kept  her  eyes  upon  the  veil. 

"  Madame  Henrietta,  dost  love  me  ?  " 

"Does  a  mother  love  her  child? " 

"  Ah,  well,  then  I  would  know  how  this  long  veil  of 
mine  will  look  on  me,  by  seeing  how  'twill  look  on  thy 
dear  head.  Now  stoop — stoop  —  stoop  —  madame,  as 
though  I  were  a  queen,  and  you  were  to  be  dubbed  a 
knight." 

"  Nay,"  said  the  young  lord,  as  the  lady  was  about  to 
kneel. 

"  But  I  say  I  will,"  said  the  bride. 

"  I  would  I  could  as  easily  assure  thee  lasting  happi- 
ness, fair  girl,"  said  the  lady,  gravely.  And  kneeling,  her 
head  was  soon  enveloped  in  the  beautiful  lace  veil. 

The  bridegroom  looked  on  helplessly,  and  seemed 
troubled  at  this  act." 

"Charming — charming,"  cried  the  laughing  Elvira. 
"  Who  can  see  your  blushes  now  ?  You  look  like  a  bride 
yourself.  Pray  now,  who  could  tell  you  from  me  ?" 

The  young  lord  suddenly  started,  and  his  grave  face 
lighted  up  with  hope. 

"  Nay,  wear  it  —  wear  it,"  said  Elvira.  "  I  must  leave 
you  for  a  little,  young  bride  and  bridegroom ;  for  I  have 
yet  to  put  on  my  diamonds.  Stay  here  —  stay  lun-e." 
And  she  ran  laughing  from  the  room. 

"  Thou  art  saved  —  thou  art  saved  !  " 

It  was  the  young  lord  who  spoke,  and,  as  he  did  so,  the 
imperilled  queen  for  one  moment  hoped,  bi  t  the  next  she 


I  PURITANI.  157 

•was  deep  sunk  in  despair,  and  only  breathed  the  air  of 
liberty  again  when  the  colonel  entered  the  room,  and 
coming  up  to  her,  said  :  "  The  fairy  Elvira  should  not 
hide  her  face  beneath  that  envious  mantle — let  me  raise  it." 

"  Nay,  nay,"  said  Arthur." 

"  No  ?  Surely !  May  Heaven  bless  thee,  niece  — 
daughter !  May  good  Heaven  bless  thee,  and  keep  thee 
as  happy  as  thou  art  now  I  hope  —  thou  dost  not  speak?" 

"  She  hath  vowed  neither  to  speak  nor  show  her  face 
till  we  are  one." 

"  So  —  so :  but '  tis  time  we  had  set  out  —  so  follow  me 
—  follow  me!" 

And  he  left  the  room. 

The  queen  was  about  taking  off  the  veil. 

"Stay  —  stay,  your  majesty;  —  'tis  a  miracle!  Who 
shall  know  you  ?  And  have  I  not  a  pass  from  the  castle  ?  " 

"  Nay  —  I  fear  for  thy  life,  my  lord." 

"  Nay,  queen  ;  to  refuse  would  be  to  cast  from  thee 
Heaven's  gift.  Come  —  come."  And  he  led  her  respect- 
fully towards  the  door.  But  there  stood  a  wild-looking 
puritan  —  Captain  Richard  Forth  to  wit  —  his  sword 
drawn,  and  his  eyes  flashing. 

"  Thou  shalt  draw  steel  for  her,"  and  he  stood  immov- 
able in  the  doorway. 

In  a  moment  the  lord's  sword  was  out  of  its  sheath, 
but  the  queen  ran  between  the  thirsty  weapons,  and  in  so 
doing  her  veil  was  deranged,  and  her  face  seen. 

"  I  forbid  thee,  my  lord,  and  thou  —  man  of  blood." 

" '  Tis  not  she,  'tis  Madame  Henrietta,"  murmured  the 
puritan,  and  lowered  his  sword. 

The  lord's  sword,  however,  was  still  raised. 

"  Thou  canst  go,  Arthur  Talbot ;  thou  mayest  take  her 
with  thee.  Go,  both  of  ye,  in  peace.  Go,  and  I  prophe- 
cy that  thou  shalt  weep  bitter  tears  —  that  thou  shalt  sit 
apart  and  lonely,  that  thou  shalt  yearn  for  thy  distant 
country,  that  thou  shalt  float  in  a  sea  of  misfortunes. 
Begone !  thou  wanderer." 

Then  the  young  lord  trembled  as  he  thought  of  his 
bride  whom  he  was  about  to  desert.  But  the  loyalty  of 
a,  cavalier  was  his  honor;  so  he  turned  to  the  door  and 
led  Madame  Henrietta  over  its  threshold. 


158  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

The  puritan  stood  erect  and  motionless  in  the  room 
waiting  for  retribution.  He  —  he  the  rejected,  the  insult- 
ed, would  triumph. 

Through  the  window  he  saw  them  reach  the  bridge, 
pass  it,  pass  the  gate,  to  horse  and  away,  away ! 

Still  he  waited. 

Then  came  footsteps  towards  the  room,  those  of  the 
bride,  her  father,  and  several  attendants. 

"Arthur — Arthur,"  said  the  young  bride  coming  in 
laughingly  for  the  crowning  veil.  "  Ah  captain !  good 
day !  Master  Talbot  —  is  he  here  ?  " 

"  He  was  but  an  instant  since." 

«  And  —  and  now?" 

«  He  hath  fled,  he  hath  deserted  thee ! " 

Then  there  was  a  great  cry  and  a  start. 

"And  the  lady  —  Madame  Henrietta  —  gone  also?" 

Soon  horsemen  were  flying  from  the  castle  —  the  rattle 
of  drums  calling  to  arms  spread  over  the  place  —  every 
soul  about  the  castle  was  hurried  and  frightened.  All 
but  Captain  Richard  Forth,  who  stood  cold  and  gratified, 
nursing  his  vengeance,  and  saying  it  was  a  judgment. 

But  as  he  hears  the  alarm  bell,  he  hears  mixed  with  it 
a  strange  wild  cry  —  near  him  —  almost  at  his  ear. 

Still  the  call  to  arms  was  repeated  —  still  the  alarm-bell 
rang  out  its  dismal  warning,  and  again  the  dull  appealing 
cry  was  heard. 

This  time  he  knew  whence  it  came.  It  was  uttered  by 
Elvira. 

Wildly  she  was  looking  before  her,  and  tearing  the 
bridal  flowers  she  wore  to  shreds,  and  breaking  into  bits 
the  lace  about  her  dress. 

"  She  —  she  wears  the  white  veil !  He  looks  on  her,  he 
smiles,  and  whispers  that  she  is  his  bride.  And  I,  whom 
now  am  I?  Elvira  is  his  bride  —  am  not  If  Elvira? 
why  is  he  not  here  ?  " 

Then  wanderingly  she  placed  her  trembling  right  hand 
upon  her  head.  "  No,  no,"  she  cried,  and  dropped  the 
hand  to  her  side. 

"Elvira — dear  daughter — speak  to  me." 

"No  —  no — NO  —  I  am  not  Elvira." 

**  How  pale  thou  ait,  Elvira." 


1  PtTKITANI.  159 

"  And  —  and  thy  eyes  are  fixed  and  staring." 

"  The  judgment  is  heavy,-'  said  the  Captain,  implacable. 
"  Thus  heaven  punishes  perfidy.  SHE  is  MAD. 

And  yet  the  captain  stood  calmly  as  the  general  fell 
despairingly  at  his  feet. 

"  But  thou  wilt  return  —  mine  Arthur  —  thou  wilt  re- 
turn. I  will  faithfully  wait  for  thee  —  wait  —  wait !  And 
thou  wilt  come,  Arthur.  I  will  weep,  I  will  weep  for  thee." 

"  Tears,  tears,"  said  Captain  Richard  Forth ;  "  tears 
for  such  as  he  —  heaven's  tears.  MAIDEX,  I  WILL  AVENGE." 

"  Oh !  how  my  heart  throbs ;  and  before  my  eyes  is  a 
great  rain  of  blood.  Arthur,  Arthur,  help  me  —  help  — 
help ! " 

Then  all  those  puritans  there  standing  cursed  him,  and 
u  the  woman." 

"Let  not  house,  nor  shore,  harbor  these  accursed.  Let 
their  heads  be  free  to  the  scorn  of  the  wind  and  the 
storm,  and  may  the  dogs  bark  wrathfully  at  them.  Let 
the  whole  earth  war  with  them  through  life,  and  cast 
them  from  her  bosom  when  dead.  Let  them  live  wishing 
for  death.  Let  heaven  be  un  approached  by  them." 


CHAPTER  III. 

So  she  remained,  day  after  day,  ever  waiting  for  the 
bridegroom's  return,  and  dismally  decking  herself  in  what 
she  took  for  maniage  garments.  Sometimes  she  would 
take  a  soldier  walking  on  the  ramparts  for  him  she  had  lost. 
But  she  would  soon  discover  her  mistake,  and  then  she 
would  sit  patiently  waiting  and  gazing  from  the  window. 

When,  too,  the  sound  of  drum  or  trumpet  reached  her 
ears,  she  would  imagine  herself  again  going  through  the 
terrible  scene  when  she  discovered  Arthur's  flight. 

Meanwhile,  Captain  Richard  Forth  held  fast  by  his  vow 
of  vengeance ;  and,  like  a  soldier,  calmly  waited  for  the 
hour  of  the  fight. 

The  doctors  who  were  called  in  to  Elvira  could  give  no 
hope ;  but  one  said  that  perhaps  a  sudden  joy  or  grief 
might  restore  the  lost  reason. 


100  TALES  FROM  THB  OPERA3. 

On  one  of  many  days,  the  colonel  was  conversing  with 
the  captain,  when  the  luckless  girl  wandered  near  them. 

Her  uncle  addressed  her  kindly. 

"  Prithee,  who  art  thou  ? "  she  made  answer  to  the 
uncle  she  had  loved  so  well. 

"  What ! "  said  he,  assuming  a  heart-breaking  cheerful- 
ness ;  "  dost  not  know  me  Elvira  ?  " 

"  Ah !  truly,  truly.  He  is  waiting  for  me.  Quick, 
quick!  Thou  wouldst  not  surely  keep  a  bridegroom 
waiting.  Quick  —  quick  —  quick." 

Then  she  perceived  the  stern  puritan,  Richard  Forth, 
who  was  now  weeping. 

"Verily,  'tis  a  tear  on  thy  face.  Ah,  thou,  too,  hast 
loved,  and  art  forgotten.  I  love  thee  for  thy  lost  love." 

It  was  on  this  occasion,  after  the  lady  had  been  induced 
to  return  to  her  apartment,  that  the  colonel  took  the 
captain  into  his  confidence. 

"  Thou  must  save  this  man." 

"  How  ?  —  whom  ?  " 

«  Lord  Arthur  Talbot." 

"  Save  Arthur  Talbot  ?  And  again  ?  It  is  not  in  my 
power  to  do  so." 

"  If  thou  couldst  save  him  wouldst  thou  ?  " 

«'  Twould  be  by  death." 

"  The  flight  was  not  Talbot's  fault  alone ;  at  least, '  twas 
as  much  the  fault  of  his  loyalty,  for  she  was  a  royalist." 

"  The  arm  that  striketh  him  shall  go  unpunished.  He 
is  outlawed  ;  he  that  will  may  kill  him.  He  shall  die." 

"  Is  thy  vengeance  justice,  man  ?  or  is  it  jealousy  ? 
Again,  the  hand  that  shall  slay  him  will  also  slay  Elvira. 
Then  thou  shalt  hear  remorse  whispering  in  the  storm, 
and  thy  life  will  be  a  burden  to  thee.  Forget  this  hate  ; 
forgive  —  mercy !  " 

For  a  little  while  the  stern  puritan  held  up  his  head. 
Then  it  fell. 

"  I  will  forget  this  hate  —  I  will  save  him." 

"'  Tis  the  proof  of  thy  patriotism,  Richard." 

"  If  his  heart  be  open  —  not  if  he  cometh  armed.  Not 
if  he  bear  arms  against  his  country." 

"No,  no  —  then  no  mercy,  Richard,  no  mercy." 


I   PITRITANI. 


"What  if  he  were  among  the  cavaliers  now  encamped 
near  us,  who,  it  is  rumored,  will  attack  us  at  daybreak  ?  " 
u  His  blood  be  on  his  own  head.    Let  him  perish." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

!N"ox  two  hours  after  that  conversation,  Lord  Arthur 
Talbot  came  rapidly  towards  the  house  which  the  general, 
now  encamped  at  some  distance  from  his  fortress,  occu- 
pied. It  was  a  large  house  near  the  camp.  Surrounded 
by  an  enclosure  of  tall  trees,  and  high  walls,  this  house 
stood,  and  in  its  old  weed-filled  garden,  the  witless  lady 
sometimes  wandered.  Some  of  the  windows  of  the  house 
opened  down  to  the  grounds,  and  to  a  wide  terrace. 

Arthur  reached  the  wall,  soon  clambered  to  the  top,  and 
was  just  dropping  to  the  ground  when  a  sentinel  espied 
him  and  fired.  But  he  missed  his  aim,  and  the  next 
moment  the  lord  was  on  the  grounds  of  the  house. 

"  Safe,1'  he  muttered  thankfully,  and  looking  about  him 
he  thought  how  sweet  it  was  to  see  the  house  and  garden 
once  again,  to  see  his  dear  native  land,  which  he  quitted 
three  months  before  to  save  a  queen,  who  was  now  in 
safety  and  comparatively  happy.  What  joy  he  thought  it 
would  be  to  tell  his  Elvira  the  glorious  truth — that  he  had 
saved  a  queen  from  death — and  had  restored  a  mother  to 
her  children.  His  heart  beat  as  he  thought  of  her  joy 
when  he  had  told  his  tale,  and  proved  his  honor  and  his 
love  for  her.  He  was  loyal  too,  even  though  a  royalist, 
and  had  never  thought  of  bearing  arms  against  his  country. 

As  he  moved  hesitatingly  towards  the  house,  the  lost 
lady  passed  the  open  windows,  singing  a  ballad  her  lover 
hacf  taught  her. 

He  started,  and  turned  towards  the  spot  whence  came 
the  welcome  sound. 

So  gently  he  began  singing  the  ballad.  Nay — he  sang 
it  quite  through,  and  yet  no  answer  was  made. 

As  he  concluded,  there  were  heard  the  sounds  of  steps 
near  him.  He  fled  into  the  shadow  of  some  friendly  trees, 
as  his  beating  heart  told  him  of  the  coming  of  the  puritans. 


162 

Nearer  and  nearer  came  the  sound.  Surely,  'twas  a 
picket  of  soldiers.  They  passed  on,  and  their  steps  were 
lost  in  the  distance.  He  stood  again  beneath  the  win- 
dows, and  once  more  chanted  the  ballad  she  so  loved. 

She  came  to  one  of  the  casements  —  slowly  —  slowly  — 
dreamily. 

"  It  has  ceased  —  the  loved  wind,  which  sings  his  song." 

She  stepped  through  the  open  window  on  'to  the  terrace. 

u  Ah,  my  Arthur,  where  art  thou  ?  " 

"  Here,  dearest,  by  thy  side — at  thy  feet." 

"  Thou !  is't  thou  ?  "  And  she  put  her  arms  about  him. 
"  Thou  dost  not  deceive  me  ?  " 

"  I  deceive  thee  !  never,  Elvira." 

"I  tremble;  why?  Is  misfortune  near? 

"  No  —  no ;  be  joyful.  Love  smiles  beneficently  upon 
us." 

"  How  —  how  long  is  it  since  I  saw  thee  ?  " 

u  Three  weary  months." 

"No,  no;  three  centuries  of  sighs  and  agony.  And 
have  I  not  called  to  thee  —  Arthur  —  Arthur  —  return ! " 

"  But  she  was  in  danger,  and  I  saved  her." 

«  And  —  and  thou  lovdst  her  ?  " 

•<!?—  her?" 

"  Is  she  not  thy  wife  ? ' 

«  Nay  —  " 

"Nay,  but  is  she?" 

"  I  love  her  whom  I  have  ever  loved  —  whom  I  shall 
love  till  death  is  with  me  —  and  'tis  thee" 

"  Ah !  then  he  did  not  love  her.  Then  I  will  love  him 
better  than  ever  —  better  than  ever.  Yet  tell  me,  if  thou 
didst  not  love  her,  why  didst  thou  follow  her  ?  " 

"  Her  life  was  in  danger." 

«  Whose  life,  love  ?    Whose  ?  " 

"  The  queen's ;  she  was  the  queen." 

«  The  queen ! " 

**  A  moment  more,  and  she  would  have  been  doomed 
to  the  scaffold." 

"  Then  —  then  thou  dost  love  me  ?  " 

w  Art  thou  not  in  my  arms  ?  Doth  not  my  heart  tell 
thee  how  I  love  thee  ?  I  would  rather  die  than  part  from 
thee.  Each  wakiug  moment  since  we  parted  I  have 


I  PURITANI.  163 

thought  of  Elvira,  and  dreamt  of  her  each  minute  that  I 
slept ;  and  when  I  was  on  the  sea,  I  said  my  love  Avas  as 
boundless  as  the  waves." 

"I  am  dying  with  joy  —  dying;  and  yet — yet  I  am 
afraid  ;  I  am  quite  afraid.  Put  your  hand  upon  my  heart. 
Now,  doth  it  beat  ?  " 

As  she  laid  his  hand  upon  her  breast,  there  was  heard 
the  sound  of  a  drum-roll.  Immediately  it  destroyed  the 
partial  sense  with  which  she  had  been  blessed  while 
speaking  to  her  lover. 

"  Hark  ! "  she  said,  hurriedly  and  terribly,  "  I  know  the 
sound,  but  now  I  fear  it  no  longer.  Yes,  I  tore  her  veil 
from  off  her  head,  and  trampled  on  it.  I  did  —  I  did. 
And  —  and  thou  wilt  not  leave  me  ?  " 

"  Great  powers  ? "  he  cried,  looking  into  her  dreamy 
eyes ;  and  in  a  great  whirl  of  fear,  he  fell  back  from  her. 

There  came  floating  on  the  air  the  exchange  of  the 
watchword,  "  England  and  Cromwell." 

"  Come,"  he  said,  moving  towards  the  house :  "  let  ua 
go  in." 

Then  she  was  seized  with  a  violent  paroxysm.  Calling 
out  that  he  wished  to  leave  her  —  to  go  back  to  her  for 
whom  she  had  been  deserted.  She  poured  forth  shriek 
upon  shriek  till  the  air  was  all  astir. 

Alarmed  at  the  sudden  discovery  he  had  made,  he  tried 
to  fly  from  her,  but  she  clung  to  him — still  shrieking  that 
he  would  leave  her,  and  that  he  was  going  to  the  woman 
with  whom  he  had  fled. 

"  Be  silent." 

"He  would  fly  me — " 

« Oh—  be  silent." 

"  Help  —  help  —  for  pity's  sake ! " 

«Ah!" 

Then  came  the  alarmed  puritans,  running  in  from  all 
sides.  From  the  house  —  from  the  garden  —  over  the 
walls  they  streamed  —  nearer  and  nearer,  till  they  sur- 
rounded the  lover  and  his  mad  bride. 

While  he,  all  his  fear  merged  in  overwhelming  sorrow, 
stood  gazing  at  her  who  was  then  his  ruin ;  for  had  she  not 
called  his  dread  enemies  about  him  ? 

Amongst  the  rest  came  Captain  Richard  Forth.    And 


164  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

as  he  saw  his  enemy  in  his  power  —  his  enemy  wearing 
his  sword,  and  come  secretly  in  the  night-time  from  the 
puritan  camp  —  he  saw  he  was  unworthy  to  live,  and  he 
cried,  u  The  ungodly  shall  perish  from  off  the  face  of  the 
earth.  Thou  hast  crept  to  death,  Arthur  Talbot;  thou 
hast  crept  here  to  death ! " 

The  dreadful  word  made  a  dreadful  impression  on  the 
lady.  She  trembled  violently,  pressed  her  hands  about 
her  head,  and  uttered  the  word  over  and  over  again.  Was 
this  the  great  terror  that  might  save  her  ?  The  learned 
doctor  had  said  a  sudden  joy  or  terror  might  restore  her. 

"  Arthur,"  she  cried  at  last,  in  a  tone  far  different  from 
that  in  which  she  had  spoken  to  him  but  a  minute  since, 
and  fell  upon  his  breast.  She  was  saved !  So  he  had 
returned  to  restore  her  to  reason,  and  she  —  she  had  de- 
stroyed him. 

Even  in  the  one  word,  "  Arthur,"  she  betrayed  him. 

u  Arthur  Talbot,"  they  cried  aloud ;  and  each  man  drew 
bis  breath  hard,  and  grasped  his  sword. 

"  Let  the  unrighteous  perish ;  let  no  hand  be  stretched 
forth  to  save  him." 

Said  the  captain,  "  Thou  art  brave  enough  not  to  fear 
death,  Arthur  Talbot.  Be  prepared  —  thou  art  of  the 
camp  of  the  lost  —  thou  shalt  surely  die." 

"  He  die  ?  and  have  I  caused  his  death  ?  I  who  love  him 
better  than  I  love  my  life  ?  " 

The  stern  puritan,  as  he  watched  the  effect  of  his  hasty 
speech  upon  the  poor  lady's  countenance,  was  sorry  he 
had  spoken. 

Said  the  puritans  among  themselves  —  "Behold  a  judg- 
ment. Is  he  not  delivered  into  our  hands  ?  Then  he  must 
surely  die ! " 

"  Fear  not,"  said  the  lost  man  to  his  destroyer  —  she 
whom  he  loved  so  well.  "  Fear  not,  death  is  easy  to  the 
brave,  and  I  am  brave,  or  thou  wouldst  have  never  loved 
me." 

The  captain  and  the  colonel  looked  hesitatingly  one  at 
the  other,  and  then  at  the  cavalier.  The  puritans  mur- 
mured and  cried  aloud. 

"  What !  shall  not  the  sv,rord  fall  when  the  Lord  hath 
bidden  it  to  destioy  ?" 


1  PURITAOT.  165 

"  I  have  killed  him,  I  have  killed  him,"  she  exclaimed, 
now  miserably  sane. 

"  Fear  not,  my  own  Elvira." 

Again  the  puritans  cried  out  — 

"  Wherefore  shall  we  not  destroy  the  enemy  ?  " 

Suddenly  a  trumpet  sounded. 

A  moment,  and  the  face  of  the  colonel  was  full  of  joy, 
and  yet  wet  with  new-born  tears.  The  message  was  a 
pardon  signed  by  Cromwell,  for  all  cavaliers  who  should 
lay  down  arms  before  the  action. 

Said  Lord  Arthur  Talbot.  "  I  have  never  borne  arms 
against  the  nation.  I  have  belonged  to  no  camp.  I  have 
arrived  in  England  but  this  evening,  and  came  hither 
from  the  vessel." 

The  puritans  forgot  themselves,  for  they  gave  a  shout 

of  joy. 

And  even  the  bitter  Captain  Richard  Forth  was  heartily 
glad  to  find  that  Arthur  Talbot's  blood  had  not  been  shed. 

So  the  young  bridegroom  did  not  die,  and  the  bride  did 
not  therefore  destroy  him,  and  his  marriage  at  last  took 
place,  sanctified  by  the  glorious  truth  that  he,  the  bride- 
groom, had  saved  a  human  life.  Not  only  the  life  of  a 
queen,  but  the  life  of  a  loving  mother. 


LA  FIGLIA  DEL  REGGIMENTO.      (DONIZETTI.) 

THE  DAUGHTER   OF  THE   REGIMENT. 


CHAPTER  I. 

TAKE  any  young  creature  of  warm,  generous  disposi- 
tion, put  a  military  coat  on  her  fair  young  shoulders,  a 
smart  military  hat  on  her  head,  and  hang  a  little  brandy 
keg  over  her  right  hip,  and  then  you  have  a  delightful 
vivandiere  of  the  grand  army  —  a  very  honest,  decent 
kind  of  girl. 

Our  vivandiere  was  called  the  daughter  of  the  regi- 
ment, for  she  knew  no  other  parents  than  the  rough,  but 
warm-hearted  soldiers.  They  found  a  little  child  on  the 
field  of  battle  ;  they  nurtured  her,  and  called  her  "Marie." 

Many  units  of  her  collective  father  were  knocked  over 
before  Marie  grew  to  be  a  very  pretty  girl ;  but,  spite  of 
continual  arrivals,  seeing  their  daughter  for  the  first  time, 
there  were  many  who  remembered  Marie  being  found,  and 
with  her  a  letter,  and  nobody  better  than  Sergeant  Sul- 
pice  —  who  always  kept  the  letter,  and  who,  in  fact,  had 
picked  it  and  Marie  up  when  he  was  a  full  private,  and 
quite  a  new  recruit. 

Well,  they  taught  Marie  to  tap  her  drum  at  a  very  early 
early  age,  and  she  tapped  it  till  she  was  nearly  seventeen ; 
and  on  her  birthday,  and  all  other  social  festivals,  she 
tapped  it  very  loud  and  fast. 

The  French  were  scudding  all  over  Switzerland,  and 
nobody  was  more  frightened,  then  and  there,  than  the 
Marquise  de  Berkenfelt.  As  a  rule,  the  Swiss  opposed 
the  French  bravely,  but  the  marquise  was  a  disgrace  to 
her  title. 

She  stood  among  the  villagers  of  her  particular  village 
trembling  far  move  than  the  young  girls.  As  for  the 
marquise  —  fifty,  if  a  dayl 


LA    FIGLIA   DEL   KEGGIMENTO.  167 

She  could  not  return  to  the  castle,  and  yet  she  could 
not  stay  where  she  was, —  and  then,  the  enemy  might  be 
down  on  them  in  a  moment. 

"  Plan  —  plan  —  rataplan,"  away  in  the  distance. 

The  marquise's  steward  immediately  assured  her  that 
the  men  were  retreating,  and  the  marquise  was  immensely 
glad  to  hear  it.  She  would  not,  however,  go  back  to  that 
castle  of  hers,  but  chose  to  sit  on  a  secluded  rock,  while 
the  steward  went  to  reconnoitre.  Barely  was  she  left  to 
herself  than  Sergeant  Sulpice  was  walking  rapidly  past 
her. 

"By  the  lock  of  a  musket,  if  they  could  fight  as  they 
can  run,  we  should  be  sent  back  to  France  in  a  week. 
Aye,  run  —  run  —  as  though  peace  was  not  proclaimed. 
Hallo!  here  comes  Marie  —  Marie  of  the  llth." 

«  Qh '  e  —  e  —  e  —  Salute,  Sulpice." 

"  Here  comes  the  heart  of  the  regiment." 

"  Well  —  I  think  I  begin  to  do  you  credit." 

"  Angel." 

"Pooh — nonsense.  Soldier!  Born  in  a  camp — the 
roll  of  the  drum  my  only  lullaby  —  a  drum  my  only  toy 

—  except  you  —  you  grizzly  old  father,  you." 
"  The  regiment  is  lucky  to  have  a  Marie." 

"  Marie  is  lucky  to  have  a  regiment,  you  mean.  Why, 
each  man  was  her  carriage  when  she  was  a  child  —  her 
rations  were  better  than  any  one's;  —  yes  she  ate  and 
drank  to  the  trun  —  trun  —  trun  of  the  drum.  And  now 

—  now  I'm  grown  up  —  every  man  touches  his  shako  to 
me." 

"  They  revere  you." 

"  Revere,  nonsense  —  they  love  me.  Don't  I  too  have 
all  the  pleasure  of  the  camp  !  " 

"Yes,  and  who  takes  care  of  the  camp?  —  who  has  a 
kind  word  and  hand  for  a  wounded  man,  while  she  gives 
the  other  hand  to  him  who  comes  to  help  her  ?  " 

"Yes  —  and  who  is  it  fills  your  glasses  —  and  sings 
you  songs  ?  " 

"  Yes  —  and  who  makes  us  happy  ?  " 

"  Why,  not,  the  daughter  of  the  regiment ! " 

"  Oh  —  of  course  not ! " 

u  Now  —  now  —  now  —  Sergeant  —  attention.  Right 
about  face.  Ma-a-a-r-r-rch  !  " 


168  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

"  Turn  —  turn  —  turn  —  Ra-ra-ra-ra." 

And  so —  drilling  her  drum  —  she  and  the  sergeant 
march  off  to  the  camp. 

Barely  had  they  marched  off  from  the  neighborhood 
of  the  marquise,  when  following  them  or  rather  her,  with 
his  eyes,  came  a  young  Swiss  —  as  handsome  as  you  would 
have  him,  ladies  —  perfection. 

Truth  to  tell,  Tony  was  handsome. 

Also  truth  to  tell,  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  Marie. 
And  love,  the  conqueror,  had  even  whispered  to  him  to 
turn  ti'aitor  to  his  country,  and  enlist  in  the  ranks  of  the 
army,  and,  it  need  not  be  said,  the  ranks  of  the  glorious 
llth.  Then  he  would  be  near  her — then,  perhaps,  he 
should  some  day  marry  her.  And  he  might  become  a 
general.  And  she  —  she  would  be  the  general's  lady. 
"  Why  not  ?  "  He  was  honest  (except  in  the  matter  of 
patriotism),  good-humored,  and  handsome — why  should 
she  not  fall  in  love  with  him  ?  " 

But  seeing  the  sergeant  and  Marie  returning,  he  ran  to 
shelter  and  to  shadow  immediately. 

"  Well,  but  Sulpice,  —  why  not  say  it  as  we  walked 
along  ?  What  need  to  come  to  this  quiet  spot  as  you 
call  it  ?" 

"  Because  I  want  to  speak  to  you  in  private." 

«  Attention ! " 

"  You  are  a  fine  tall  girl,  and  you  are  handsome." 

"  Is  that  what  you  want  to  tell  me  in  private.  Why 
I'm  told  so  fifty  times  a  day." 

«And " 

"  Oh  there's  an  end ! " 

"  And  —  and  you  ought  to  look  out  for  a  husband." 

"You  mean  a  husband  ought  to  look  out  fbr  me. 
Plenty  of  time  —  plenty  of  time." 

M  Plenty  of  time  ?  Then  who  was  that  you  were  talk- 
ing to  at  our  last  encampment  ?  " 

"  Who  —  who  ?  Let  me  see ;  ah,  the  Tyrolese  youth 
who  saved  my  life,  you  know ! " 

"Your  life?    How?" 

M  Attention !  but  what's  that  noise  ?  " 

For  there  was  a  great  disturbance  as  though  somebody 
was  being  pushed  about,  and  as  though  somebody  wag 
rather  objecting  to  it. 


LA  FIGLIA   DEL   REGGIMKNTO. 

"  A  spy  —  a  spy  —  a  spy." 

And  the  next  moment  Tony  was  being  lugged  before 
the  sergeant  by  as  many  of  the  brave  llth  as  could  con- 
veniently keep  a  hold  on  him  at  one  and  the  same  mo- 
ment. He  butting,  kicking,  and  struggling  all  the  while. 

"  Spy  —  no  spy  —  I  want  to  be  a  soldier. 

"  'Tis  he  —  'tis  he." 

"  What  the  young  Tyrolese,  Marie  ?  " 

"  Of  course  it  is,  Sulpice  ;  who  else  could  it  be  ?  Your 
servant,  Tyrolese  —  what  brings  you  here  ?  " 

"  Hang  him  —  hang  him  —  a  spy ! "  shrieked  out  a  full 
dozen  of  the  brave  llth. 

"  What  —  hang  him  —  who  saved  my  life  ?  " 

"  Cre-e-e-d-e  — '  tis  another  affair  that  —  he  shall  live," 
decided  also  at  least  a  dozen  of  the  brave  llth. 

"  But  for  him  I  should  have  been  at  this  moment  at  the 
bottom  of  a  frightful  precipice.  Yes ;  and  he  nearly  lost 
his  own  life." 

"Brother  —  he's  a  brother  —  he  shall  be  one  of  us!" 
was  the  dictum  of  the  men  of  the  brave  llth.  Give  him 
a  welcome.  Marie  —  a  glass  of  brandy." 

Briskly  Marie  poured  it  out. 

"Long  live  the  French  —  my  new  friends,"  said  the 
n"w  recruit,  raising  his  glass. 

1  Hurrah  —  hurrah." 

Then  was  heard  a  roll  of  the  drum  —  the  call  to  camp 
in  fact. 

"  Come  —  come  —  comrade,"  said  they  to  Tony.  But 
Tony  showed  a  desire  to  stay ;  and  so  also  did  Marie. 
So  she  called  out,  "  Leave  him  with  me,  I'll  answer  for 
him.  You  know  —  he's  my  prisoner." 

But  they  wouldn't  part  with  him,  and  hurried  him  away. 

She  was  preparing  to  follow  the  soldiers  —  when  with 
a  run  he  was  at  her  side,  quite  out  of  breath.  She  did 
not  care  about  following  the  soldiers  now.  Truth  to  tell, 
she  sat  down  on  a  bank  and  began  chatting. 

"  Here  I  am,  you  see." 

"  What  already  ?  " 

"  La  —  when  I  gave  them  the  slip  —  the  sergeant  roared 
like  a  bull." 

"  Ah  —  my  father ! " 


170  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

**  (  Confound  it.)     No  —  one  near  him." 

«  Well  —  he's  my  father. 

"  I  mean  the  old  man." 

"And  h£s  my  father  too ! " 

"  Why,  the  whole  regiment  ?  " 

"  Exactly  so.    The  whole  regiment  is  my  father." 

«  Ah !  I  see." 

"  But  now  tell  me,  why  have  you  followed  the  regi- 
ment ?  I  thought  when  I  said  good  bye  to  you  that  I 
should  never,  never  see  you  again." 

"  I  don't  think  you  did  think  so,  because  you  must 
have  known  I  couldn't  live  away  from  you,  because  you 
must  have  known  I  loved  you,  and  I  do  love  you." 

"Ha,  ha!" 

"  Will  you  not  believe  me  ?  " 

«  Well  —  I  don't  know." 

"From  the  moment  I  saved  you  —  I  have  known  no 
rest." 

"Ah — then  you  had  better  not  have  saved  me.  But 
want  of  rest  don't  prove  you  love  me!" 

"  But  I  have  left  my  friends  and  my  country  to  follow 
you!" 

"  Such  desertion  I  can't  pardon ! "  — 

"  And  I  would  die  for  you  —  and  I  will ! " 

"  Oh  nonsense  —  why  die  ?  When  a  youth  loves  a  gin 
he  should  live  for  her." 

"Marie!" 

"Ah  —  well.  Here's  the  decision  of  the  court  martial: 
—  I  think  you  do  love  me.  And  —  and  I  don't  feel  so 
free  as  I  did." 

"  Then  you  do  not  hate  me." 

"Hate!  —  no  —  no.  Here  am  I,"  she  thought,  "who 
always  hated  the  enemy, —  here  am  1  —  talking  with  one 
of  them  —  and  —  and  not  disliking  to  talk !  And  —  and 
Tony,  she  said,"  slyly,  "  that  flower  you  gave  me  —  I 
have  it  now." 

Whereupon  and  thereupon  he  clasped  her  to  his  heart 
like  a  man. 

"Ho  —  ho — ho  —  by  the  lock  of  a  musket,"  said  Ser- 
geant Sulpice,  coming  up  in  time  to  witness  this  delight- 
ful embrace.  "  The  Tyrolese,  who  just  now  escaped ! " 


LA  FIGLIA   DEL  BEGGIMENTO.  171 

"  Sergeant  —  Tm  Marie's  husband's  self." 
«  Traitor ! " 

"  Tut  —  tut  —  tut  —  sergeant,"  said  the  little  vivandi- 
ere,  coming  before  Marie's  husband's  self —  like  a  bastion 

—  "  qui-i-i-iet." 

"I  say  Marie  is  already  promised  to  the  bravest  in 
our  ranks." 

"  Pooh !  a  girl  can't  marry  her  own  father,  you  know. 
Besides,  your  own  words  prove  Tony's  right.  You  say 
I'm  promised  to  the  bravest  man  in  the  regiment, —  well, 
he's  of  the  regiment  —  and  was  either  of  you  so  brave  as 
to  save  my  life  ?  " 

"  Good  —  Marie  —  good ! " 

"  Si-i-i-i-ilence  —  private  ! " 

u  I  may  speak,  sergeant." 

"  I  say  she  shall  marry  one  of  us." 

"  Shall  —  sergeant  ?  Then  here  it  is.  I  will  marry 
Tony,  and  I  will  marry  nobody  else  but  Tony." 

"  Gone  over  to  the  enemy  bag  and  baggage.  But  as 
for  you,  my  man,  I'll  break  your  bones." 

"  Attention  —  march  —  Tony."  And  away  the  two 
went,  leaving  Sergeant  Sulpice  boiling  with  rage. 

He  was  walking  away,  when  the  marquis's  steward 
approached  very  respectfully. 

"  Captain  —  pardon." 

"  By  Bacchus  —  if  she  marries  him. 

"  Him  —  captain  —  pardon. " 

"  Hullo  !  there,  don't  be  afraid." 

"  Captain." 

"  Ser-r-rgeant." 

"  Surely,  surely,  sergeant,  this  lady  would  ask  a  favor." 

"  Oh,  Sir !  I'm  terribly  frightened.     I  was  endeavoring 

—  I  am  still  terribly  frightened  —  but  your  men  stopped 
me.     I  was  endeavoring  to  reach  my  castle — my  castle 
of  Berkenfelt." 

"  Berkenfelt." 

"  Berkenfelt.    Do  you  know  my  castle  of  Berkenfelt?" 
"  Now,  what  connexion  can  there  be  between  Captain 
Bazancourt  and  that  name."     The  grizzly  sergeant  said 
this  amusingly,  but  it  had  a  strange  effect  on  the  aristo- 
crat. 


172  TALES  FROM  THE  OPEEA8. 

u  Captain  Bazancourt,  did  you  say  Captain  Bazan- 
court  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  know  him  perhaps ! " 

"  Know  him  —  yes  —  my  sister  —  I  think  —  was  secret- 
ly manied  to  him  —  and  their  daughter." 
'  "  Marie  ?     She  is  the  pearl  of  the  regiment." 

"Does  she  live?" 

«  She  does  if  I  do.     Steady,  lady,  steady." 

For  the  lady  had  to  lean  against  the  bank  on  which 
Marie  had  been  sitting. 

"  I'  faith,  Marie's  fortune  is  made." 

"  But  the  proof,  the  proof." 

"  The  proof—  this  letter,  then  ! " 

And  from  his  stout  breast  the  sergeant  pulled  forth  a 
tough  old  pocket  book,  and  from  the  book  he  took  a 
letter. 

This  letter  had  been  written  just  before  the  battle  in 
which  the  captain  fell.  He  had  confided  it  and  the  child 
to  a  servant,  who  was  unluckily  knocked  over  by  a  stray 
shot.  The  child  was  found  sitting  by  the  dead  servant, 
and  there  being  no  clue  beyond  the  letter,  which  simply 
named  the  castle  of  Berkenfelt,  the  child  was  then  and 
there  adopted  by  the  regiment,  and  taught  to  carry  a 
brandy  keg,  be  good-humored  and  brisk,  and  beat  a  drum, 
as,  indeed,  has  already  been  explained. 

The  lady  took  the  letter  I  discovered  with  some  emo- 
tion, but  in  the  midst  of  it,  she  contrived  to  say,  "  I  hope 
she  has  been  well  brought  up." 

"  Brought  up,  marquise,  in  the  most  genteel  and  polite 
manner ! " 

"  I'm  sure  her  aunt  —  I  am,  of  course,  her  aunt  —  I'm 
sure  I'm  very  glad  to  hear  it." 

"  Par-r-r-r-bleu !  Par-r-r-r-bleu !  Here  you  are,  Sulpicc, 
and  there  you  are  wanted. —  Par-r-r-bleu ! " 

"  Great  impossibles  —  can  that  be  her,"  asked  the  mar- 
quise of  herself.  And  the  steward  opened  his  eyes  at 
this  terrible  talking  young  woman." 

" '  Tis  she,"  said  the  sergeant  to  the  lady. 

"  Co-r-r-r-bleau  !  "  again  commended  Marie,  marching 
up  to  the  sergeant.  "  Cor-r-r-r-bleu,  do  you  call  this 
duty,  Sergeant  Sulpice  ?  " 


LA  FIGLIA  DEL   BEGGIMENTO.  173 

"  Why,  she's  positively  pulling  his  moustache,"  said  tho 
marquise,  so  far  forgetting  her  dignity  as  to  speak  famil- 
iarly with  her  own  house-steward.  "  What  an  education." 

The  steward  was  dolefully  and  properly  shocked. 

"  Come  —  come  —  old  grumbler,  come  along,  or  I'll  pull 
you  by  your  grizzly  upper-lip." 

"  Order  —  order." 

"  Come  —  come  along,  then ;  the  whole  family  is  wait- 
ing for  you." 

"  Marie  —  we've  lost  one  of  the  family." 

"  When  —  how  —  where  —  what  —  whom  ?  " 

«  You ! " 

"  Parbleu !     What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  The  owner  of  the  old  letter  is  found." 

«  Co-r-r-r-bleu  !     Where  is  he  ?  " 

«  She." 

«  Well,  where  is  she  ?  " 

"  Here  —  here  —  dear  girl !    I  am  your  —  aunt." 

"  Niece  —  you  my  aunt  ?  Cor-r-r-r-par-r-r-bleu.  Ex- 
change for  another  regiment  —  no !  " 

"  Your  soldier's  life  is  over  now,  Marie." 

"Not  till  my  life  is — " 

«  NIECE!" 

«  Oh." 

"  Read  the  letter,  Marie  —  I,  your  father  Sulpice,  bid 
you  read  the  letter." 

She  took  the  old  letter,  which  she  had  never  much 
thought  of —  for,  whereas,  somebody  belonging  to  it  had 
deserted  her  —  she  had  found  scores  of  fathers.  She  took 
the  letter.  Read  it  through.  Let  it  fall.  Covered  her 
face  with  her  hands.  And  the  little  daughter  of  the 
regiment  quite  wept  again. 

"  Come,  niece,  come  away.  I  have  a  pass,  elegant,  I 
presume,  to  my  castle  —  my  Castle  of  Berkenfelt." 

"  Surely,  marquise,  I  —  I — dare  say  you  will  be  happy, 
Marie." 

"  Come,  niece,  come."    Then  turning  to  the  steward, 

"  Order  our  carriage." 

Our  carriage.     The  vivandiere's  carriage. 

The  marquise  marched  up  in  great  state  to  her  niece. 
But  at  that  moment  there  was  a  tremendous  to-do  on  the 


174  TALES  FBOM  THE  OPERAS. 

drums,  and  the  next  moment  a  score  or  so  of  stout  sol- 
diers, Tony  among  them,  came  forward.  By  this  lime 
they  were  quite  friendly  with  Tony,  and  had  somehow 
cause  to  perceive  what  an  admirable  arrangement  his 
marrying  their  daughter,  the  vivandiere,  would  be. 

"  Ah,  there  you  are,  Marie." 

"  Pray,  who  is  this  young  man  ?  " 

"Pardon,  lady  —  Marie's  husband.  Her  fathers  have 
said  so. 

"  Fall  back,  private  —  fall  back.  There's  a  general  of 
division  has  stopped  the  match." 

"What?" 

"Yes,  comrade  —  Marie  leaves  us.  The  letter  has 
done  its  work.  This  is  Marie's  aunt." 

Perhaps  many  of  the  brave  eleventh  would  have  dis- 
puted this  position  with  the  butt  end  of  a  musket  or  so, 
but  respect  for  their  daughter  stopped  such  a  frightful 
proceeding;  yet  with  one  mighty  voice  they  cried  out, 

"  Marie  going  to  leave  us.     No,  no,  she  won't  leave  us." 

"Leave  us  —  no,  no,  Marie.  Leave  us  —  leave  me, 
Tony?" 

"  I  must,  I  must."  She  was  a  very  different  being  now 
from  the  brisk  vivandiere.  Before,  she  was  all  smiles, 
now  she  was  all  tears.  "  I  must  go.  For  shame,  do  not 
make  me  worse  than  I  am." 

Tony  took  off  his  hat,  which  was  decorated  with  the. 
gay  French  cockade,  and  looked  upon  the  innocent  little 
fluttering  ribbons  with  horror,  for  they  told  him  he  was 
bound  to  the  regiment,  and  could  not  follow  her. 

u  Pray  is  our  carriage  ready." 

"Good-bye,  oh!  good-bye  all — all  of  you;  and  dear, 
dear  Tony." 

The  soldiers  were  rude  enough,  to  push  the  marquise 
aside,  that  they  might  shake  the  hands  of  Marie,  and 
some  actually  kissed  her. 

"  Men ! "  was  the  only  remark  the  marquise  could  make. 
"Men!" 

"  Good-bye,  oh !  good-bye  all  —  all  of  you ;  and  dear, 
dear  Tony." 

"  When  will  that  carriage  be  ready  ?  " 

The  carriage  was  ready  at  last,  but  as  she  stepped  into 
it,  she  turned  her  head  to  her  then  old  companions. 


LA  FIGI.IA  DEL   EEGGIMENTO.  175 

They  had  hoped  she  was  going  to  run  away  to  them, 
under  which  evidence  of  preference  they  would  have 
defied  the  marquise,  but  the  next  moment  she  was  seated, 
and  "our  carriage"  rolled  away. 

Her  eyes  were  upon  her  old  friends  till  she  could  see 
no  more  for  tears  and  distance. 

And  there  poor  Tony  stood  despairingly  watching  the 
carriage,  his  hat  pressed  with  both  hands  to  his  heart,  and 
the  cruel,  triumphant  little  ribbons  fluttering  about  in  the 
breeze. 


CHAPTER  II. 

AT  home  in  the  grand  castle,  dressed,  no  longer  like  a 
vivandiere,  but  like  a  real  young  lady,  sat  Marie.  She 
was  not  happy,  but  she  cannot  be  said  to  have  been 
utterly  miserable  —  that  sparkling  young  girl  could  not 
be  utterly  miserable ;  but  she  was  half  way  on  the  journey 
to  utter  misery,  and  she,  erst  vivandiere,  did  not  like  the 
road. 

To  be  dressed  in  the  fashion  —  to  learn  lessons  —  to 
make  curtseys  to  grand  folks  —  all  these  things  want  an 
early  apprenticeship.  If  you  go  into  the  business  after 
you  have  gone  out  of  pinafores,  you  are  pretty  sure  to 
fail. 

And  Marie  failed  signally.  Every  day  there  arose  a 
series  of  contentions  between  Marie  and  the  marquise ; 
and  when  the  young  lady  was  seated  amongst  the  grand 
people  of  an  evening,  listening  to  vapid  songs  about 
Venus,  and  Phillis,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  delicately- 
finger-topped  crowd,  she  longed  to  get  up,  bang  a  drum, 
sing  the  rataplan,  and  show  them  all  how  they  marched 
in  the  brave  eleventh.  But  she  did  not  at  any  time  carry 
such  a  wish  into  practice,  or  the  young  duke,  whose  name 
it  is  perfectly  needless  to  know,  would  certainly  not  have 
proposed  for  her  hand  and  heart,  as  the  young  duke 
certainly  did,  to  Marie's  great  concern. 

When,  some  little  time  after,  Marie  had  become  a 
lady,  the  war  broke  out  again  —  when  again  the  old 


176  TALES   FBOM   THE   OPERAS. 

regiment  was  near  "ray  Castle  of  Berkenfelt "  —  and 
when  the  grizzly  Serjeant  Sulpice  was  wounded,  the  mar- 
quise could  not  refuse  Marie's  request  that  the  sergeant 
should  remain  at  the  castle  till  he  could  again  light  in  the 
field.  So,  rash  with  mild  gratitude,  the  marquise  let  this 
tempter  into  her  fold. 

Tempter  he  was  —  for,  from  the  day  he  made  his  ap- 
pearance, pale  as  to  his  face,  and  his  arm  in  a  sling,  he 
never  lost  an  opportunity  of  praising  up  the  regiment 
camped  not  half-a-score  of  miles  away,  and  depreciating 
the  value  of  the  castle. 

But  at  no  time  did  he  so  asperse  the  castle,  the  mar- 
quise, and  all  their  surroundings,  as  on  that  terrible  <l;iy 
when  it  was  understood  that  at  6  p.  M.,  the  duke,  the 
duke's  mother,  the  duke's  brother,  and  all  the  duke's  noble 
friends  would  come  to  assist  at  the  signing  of  the  mar- 
riage contract. 

On  that  particular  morning  the  sergeant  was  more 
indignant  than  ever;  for,  from  the  great  drawing-room, 
where  he  had  to  sit,  per  command,  he  looked  into  an 
adjoining  room,  and  saw  the  little  vivandiere,  who  could 
trip  you  a  measure  so  that  you  could  hardly  see  her  feet, 
the  little  vivandiere  trying  to  slide  through  a  solemn 
minuet  and  signally  failing  in  the  attempt. 

For  four  mortal  hours  did  the  indignant  sergeant  mark 
this  saltatory  misery,  and  he  was  meditating  an  assault 
and  crash  upon  the  extorting  dancing-master,  when  that 
unlucky  professional  withdrew,  and  Marie  came  running 
in  to  Sulpice. 

"  Oh,  I  could  have  slipped  about  no  more,  if  I  had 
died  for  it ;  like  a  dead  march,  only  not  so  brisk." 

"  Patience,  patience,  danghter." 

"Patience,  indeed  — how's  the  arm  by  this  time ?" 

"  O !  a  great  deal  better." 

"Well  —  I'm  very  glad  to  hear  that  —  still  you  need 
not  leave  us  directly." 

"What  —  what?  A  vivandiere  counsel  a  sergeant  of 
the  grand  army  to  desert ! " 

"Oh  —  no  —  no,  leave  of  absence,  sergeant." 

"  Ah,  it  seems  you  have  leave  of  absence  from  your 
aunt." 


LA   FIGLIA  DEL   REGGIMENTO.  177 

"Not  for  long,  she's  coming  here.  Now  the  dancing  is 
over,  the  word  is  "  singing."  Such  slow  singing,  I  want 
to  dash  iny  hands  down  on  the  keys  to  make  just  a  little 
stir,  you  know.  And  she  says  I  shall  sing  to-night  before 
the  company,  but  he  is  wrong.  I  won't,  I  won't,  I  won't." 

«  Or-r-r-r-der." 

"I  say  I  won't  —  I  won't  —  I  won't!  And  I  won't 
marry  the  duke,  and  I  won't  marry  anybody  but  Tony." 

"  Ah,  Marie,  how  can  you  help  yourself?  " 

"  If  I  don't  help  myself,  I'm  sure  nobody  else  will,  not 
even  Sergeant  Sulpice." 

"  Hush !  —  here  she  comes  —  full  dress  parade." 

"And  in  stalked  the  marquise." 

"Thank  the  chances  I  have  found  it  —  this  superb 
romance.  Hem  —  hem !  — '  Tis  a  beautiful  romance. 
Come,  Marie — there  you  stand  like  a  simpleton.  Come 
to  the  piano  this  moment." 

"Yes  — aunt." 

"  There  —  now  begin." 

"  Ve-e-e-nus." 

"  Very  good." 

"Venus  —  the  goddess  of  love." 

"Enchanting,  my  dear  —  go  on.     I  will  play  slowly." 

"  Venus  —  Venus  —  descends  fr-r-ra-rom  above." 

"  Quite  admirable  —  now,  go  on." 

"  Marie ! "  this  was  the  sergeant,  creeping  up  behind  the 
chaste  back  of  the  marquise,  and  whispering  to  the  vivan- 
diere.  "  Marie  —  rata  —  " 

"  Rataplan  —  rataplan  —  rataplan.  Rataplan  —  plan — 
plan  —  plan — plan — plan-n-n.  Rub-a-dub.  Dub-a-rub." 

"  My  DEAR  —  what  are  you  singing  there  ?  " 

"  Oh  —  certainly  —  aunt." 

"  Ve-e-enus  —  Venus  —  comes  down  to  dark  earth." 

"  Ve-Ae-Ae-nus  appears  —  to  light  she  gives  birth." 

"  Ra-ta  —  PLAN  —  Marie ! " 

"  Each  soldier  says  it  —  each  soldier  vows." 

"  MADEMOISELLE  !  I  beg.  Now  pray  begin  all  over 
again  —  and  when  you  come  down  at  the  end  of  the  sixth 
line  —  to  'sigh' — mind  you  sigh  just  like  Venus." 

"  Oh  —  I  can't.  Oh  —  I  won't,  I  like  the  sound  of  the 
drum  better.  There  !  Rub-a-dub-dub-dub  —  Rataplan 
—rataplan." 


178  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

u  How  dare  you  ?  " 
"  Rataplan  —  rataplan  —  rataplan." 
Useless  was  it  that  the  marquise  stepped  with  dignity 
after  the  vivandiere  at  this  declaration  of  war. 

"Now,  fall  in  there.    Right  about  face.    Ma-r-r-rch." 


u  Rataplan  —  rataplan  !  " 

Tramp,  tramp,  up  and  down  the  room  went  the  soldier 
and  the  girl,  the  marquise  continually  following  and 
expostulating. 

At  last  she  could  bear  it  no  longer,  so  she  took  advan- 
tage of  marching  right  to  the  door-post  with  them,  not 
to  wheel,  but  to  keep  straight  on  through  the  doorway, 
and  to  fluster  up  to  her  own  apartments. 

And  very  apropos  had  she  retreated,  for  barely  had  she 
gone  when  the  military  manoeuvres  were  brought  to  a 
close  by  an  announcement  of  the  steward,  as  he  stood 
judiciously  outside  the  door,  prepared  to  run  in  case  of 
military  assault  —  an  announcement  to  the  effect  that  one 
of  the  brave  eleventh  was  at  the  door. 

Whereat  the  steward  flew  on  one  side  to  make  room 
for  a  charge  on  the  part  of  both  sergeant  and  lady,  who 
both  rushed  to  the  door  to  welcome  the  vistor. 

And  who  was  that  visitor  from  the  brave  eleventh  ? 

Tony!  and  a  score  more,  who  came  storming  the 
place  as  though  they  had  a  right  to  do  so.  And  when 
they  reached  the  grand  drawing-room,  where  the  duke 
was  to  be  received,  they  set  up  such  a  shout  as  almost 
paralyzed  the  marquise,  who,  as  she  did  not  come  to  ascer- 
tain the  cause  of  the  uproar  was,  perhaps,  temporarily 
deprived  of  the  power  of  action  or  remonstrance. 

"  Hurrah  !  Marie  —  Marie  !  " 

And  there  was  to  be  seen  the  spectacle  of  "  a  young 
lady  in  fashionable  attire,"  shaking  the  hands  of  a  score 
of  common  soldiers,  and  giving  to  special  favorites  a 
friendly  dig  in  the  ribs  with  her  fair  little  fingers. 

Common  soldiers,  all  but  one  —  Tony  ! 

Hopeless  despair  is  sometimes  success.  Tony,  fighting 
madly  for  welcome  death,  lived  throughout  all  to  bo 
Captain  Tony,  and  to  wear  a  cross  of  valor. 

She  immediately,  after  a  few  confidential  words  with 


LA  FIGLIA   DEL   REGGIMEISTO.  179 

the  captain,  proposed  comfort  of  an  ardent  kind  to  the 
soldiers.  "Aye!  Aye,"  said  they  "  where's  your  keg, 
Marie  ?  "  And  then  and  there  the  vivandiere's  keg  ap- 
peared in  the  person  of  the  butler,  who  came  to  the  door 
trembling. 

And  the  next  moment  he  was  borne  off  in  trembling 
triumph  to  the  assault  of  his  own  cellars. 

Marie  was  not  the  girl  to  give  way  to  much  sentiment, 
so  the  next  moment  or  so  she  was  talking  briskly  with 
her  old  comrades. 

"  So,  here  we  three  are  again,  eh ! " 

"  Yes,  Marie,  as  iu  the  old  days." 

"  How  long  ago  they  seem,  Sulpice.  And  so  you  are  a 
captain,  Tony." 

"  Yes,  and  a  very  brave  captain  too."  This  was  not 
the  remark  of  the  captain  himself,  but  of  his  sergeant. 

"  Now  Sulpice,  sit  down  there.  Good :  now  the  cap- 
tain will  sit  on  one  side  of  you  and  I  will  sit  on  the  other. 
There.  And  now  I  must  begin.  Sergeant  Sulpice,  you 
must  help  us  ! " 

"  Help  whom,  Yivandiere  ?  " 

"  Marie,  and  Marie's  captain." 

"How?" 

"  Speak  to  the  marquise." 

"  I'd  rather  storm  a  fort." 

"Sergeant  Sulpice,  you  must  help  us.  I  say  it  —  you 
must  speak  of  our  troth." 

"  Yes  —  and  we  did  pledge  our  troth,  Marie  —  did  we 
not?" 

"  Surely ;  but  I  am  speaking  to  the  sergeant.  You  see, 
sergeant,  the  poor  captain  is  deeply  in  love  with  me ; 
and —  yes  —  I  think  I  am  deeply  in  love  with  the  captain. 
Well,  sergeant,  you  must  help  us  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sergeant  —  I,  your  captain,  tell  you  —  you  must 
help  us." 

"  Confound  you  both." 

And  the  sergeant  moved  his  chair  —  but  Marie  moved 
here,  as  also  did  the  captain  his. 

"  Yes  —  yes — yes,"  said  the  sergeant.  And  barely  had 
he  registered  the  promise  in  a  strong  bass  voice,  when  the 
marquise  entered  the  room.  She  was  almost  paralyzed 
again  at  the  sight  of  the  third  party. 


180  TALES  FEOM  THE  OPERAS. 

"  Aunt  —  aunt  —  this  is  he  who  once  saved  my  life ; 
and  —  and  I  love  him." 

"  Love !     To  use  the  word  openly,  like  that ! " 

"  But,  marquise,  this  is  Tony  —  her  husband  !  " 

"Silence,  sir  —  the  Duke  of  Krakentorp  is  Marie's  hus- 
band. Love,  indeed  !  A  soldier —  a  common  soldier  !  " 

"  Pardon  me,  marquise  —  but  Tony  js  a  captain  now." 

"  Then,  if  he  is  an  officer,  he  knows,  I  presume,  the 
laws  of  good  breeding ;  and  when  I  tell  him  his  presence 
is  distasteful," — here  the  grand  lady  curtseyed,  for  the 
captain,  without  another  word,  retired,  but  not  without  a 
certain  look  from.  Sulpice,  who,  having  given  the  promise, 
was  proceeding  to  keep  it.  He  looked  Tony  from  the 
presence  of  the  marquise,  and  then  he  looked  Marie  also 
from  her  presence. 

"  Ah,  I  would  speak  to  you  alone,  Sulpice." 

"  And  I  have  a  precisely  similar  desire,  marquise." 

"You  know  I  am  determined  on  her  marrying  the 
duke." 

"Ah!" 

"  And  I  depend  on  you  to  bring  Marie  to  reason." 

"Ah!" 

"And  I  think  "when  you  have  heard  me,  you  will  bring 
Marie  to  reason.  If  you  do  not  —  no  one  will  —  for  she 

love's  you  better  than  me  —  though  I'm her 

aunt." 

"Ah!" 

"  Did  you  ever  fall  in  love  ?  " 

«  Par-r-r-rbleu." 

"  I  have  fallen  in  love.  T,  ridiculous  and  fantastic  as 
you  think  me." 

"Not  at  all,  marquise  — not  at  all." 

M  And  I  have  been  married  —  and  to  a  soldier ! " 

"  Cor-r-r-r-rbleu." 

"  And  knowing  the  misery  I  suffered  from  that  marriage 
—  knowing  the  misery  which  must  follow  all  such 
matches — " 

"  I  don't  see  it." 

"You  don't  see  as  the  wife,  sergeant  —  I  would  not 
'wish  such  a  marriage  for  my  daughter  —  if  I  had  a 
daughter." 


LA   FIGLIA  PEL   BEGGIMENTO.  181 

«Ah!" 

"  And  —  and  I  have  a  daughter." 

"  Par-r-r-rbleu  !  —  what's  her  name  ?  " 

"  Marie !  —  Yes.  She  is  my  daughter.  And  now,  ser- 
geant —  if  you  would  oppose  the  aunt,  you  will  not  op- 
pose the  mother.  I  tell  you  a  marriage  with  the  captain 
would  be  misery.  So  you  will  persuade  her  to  marry  the 
duke  —  a  man  of  high  character,  I  assure  you,  sergeant." 

"I  —  yes  —  certainly." 

"  Then  go  at  once  to  her,  for  I  hear  a  carriage  at  the 
door." 

Away  -went  the  sergeant  —  as  dejected  as  though  the 
brave  eleventh  had  been  signally  defeated  and  cut  to 
shreds. 

"Ting  —  ting" — went  the  castle  bell.  The  visitors 
came  pouring  in,  and  amongst  them  the  duke  and  his 
mother,  the  duchess ;  with  the  inevitable  notary. 

When  Marie  came  in  with  the  sergeant,  she  ran  to  the 
marquise,  and  embraced  her  with  more  warmth  than  she 
had  ever  shown.  In  one  dismal  word  or  two  she  prom- 
ised to  obey  her  newly-found  mother. 

Then  the  preparations  went  on  for  signing  the  unavoid- 
able contract. 

Meanwhile,  the  high-flown  marquise  was  asking  herself 
whether  the  duke  was  altogether  so  admirable  a  party, 
and  she  was  beginning  to  see  it  more  clearly  than  she  had 
seen  for  many  years,  the  joys  of  that  early  martial  life  of 
hers,  and  the  happy,  loving  husband  her  captain  made. 

And  while  she  sat  recalling  that  old  time  there  was  a 
great  whirr  from  without.  The  next  moment  twenty 
common  soldiers  of  the  brave  eleventh  had  burst  into  the 
room,  headed  by  the  Captain  Tony.  For  love  will  make 
cowards  of  us,  as  he  will,  at  his  capricious  pleasure,  make 
us  heroes  of  bravery. 

And  then,  and  there,  before  all  that  fine  company,  they 
called  out  in  a  loud  voice  to  the  marquise's  daughter, 
addressed  her  as  Marie,  reminded  her  of  vivandiering 
days,  and  recommended  her  to  desert. 

The  grand  ladies  were  immensely  shocked  at  this  awful 
exposition ;  for  it  is  needless  to  say  that  the  story  of 
Marie's  discovery  had  not,  at  any  time,  formed  part  of 


182  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

the  marquise's  aristocratic  confidences ;  and,  indeed,  the 
marquise  herself  was  ready  to  shrink  into  the  ground  ; 
but  when  she  remembered  the  old  dare-devil  time  —  the 
spirit  which  had  prompted  her  to  marry  the  dead  captain, 
now  rose  against  the  shocked  indignation  of  the  grand 
people  present ;  and  then  Marie's  tears  —  and  then  a 
rather  strong  fear  that  the  duke  would  cry  off;  why  all 
those  reasons  were  as  good  as  a  crack  advocate  speaking 
for  Captain  Tony.  And  the  consequence  was,  that  when 
the  notary  respectfully  asked  for  the  name  of  the  bride- 
groom—  as  though  he  did  not  know  it — the  marquise 
gave  judgment  in  Tony's  favor,  and  surprised  the  notary, 
and  the  whole  aristocratic  company,  by  turning  to  the 
captain,  and  leading  him  up  to  a  quill-pen  dipped  in  ink. 

And  so  Marie  was  given  away  before,  at  all  events,  a 
portion  of  the  brave  eleventh,  and  certainly  with  that 
portion's  full  approbation. 

The  aristocratic  ladies  were  shocked ;  but  the  marquise, 
by  the  lightness  of  her  own  heart,  and  the  brightness  of 
Marie's  eyes,  knew  she  had  judged  wisely ;  and  so  she 
fearlessly  looked  the  grand  ladies  full  in  the  face. 

Rataplan !  Rataplan !  Marie  is  the  Daughter  of  the 
Regiment  still ! 


NORM  A.    (BELLINI.) 


CHAPTER  I. 

ROME,  all  powerful,  had  thrown  out  her  arms  to^the 
east  and  the  west,  to  the  north  and  to  the  south, "and 
boasted  of  being  mistress  of  the  world.  She  had  con- 
quered all  Germany  and  Spain,  and  overcome  the  Gauls ; 
and  not  only  the  Gauls,  but  the  Druids,  that  powerful 
and  wonderful  priesthood,  the  relics  of  whose  mysterious 
rites  yet  remain  in  various  parts  of  the  world. 

This  priesthood  rose  several  times  against  the  Roman 
yoke,  and  proved  over  and  over  again  that  they  were  not 
wanting  in  bravery,  daring,  or  hardihood. 

At  the  conquest  of  Gaul,  the  Pro-Consul  appointed  to 
Cambria,  was  named  Pollione.  Near  his  palace  was  the 
sacred  Druidic  Forest,  within  which  dwelt  the  mysterious 
priesthood. 

The  High  Priest  was  Oroveso  ;  but  higher  in  the  awe 
run  I  veneration  of  the  Gauls  stood  his  daughter  Norma. 
Proud,  beautiful,  and  cold,  she  stood  amongst  them,  ut- 
tering the  decrees  of  their  faith,  and  believed  by  all  to 
be  inspired  of  God.  All  bowed  before  the  High  Priest- 
ess —  the  spotless  virgin. 

But  ah  !  was  she  spotless  —  pure  ?  No !  seen  by  the 
Roman  Governor  but  to  be  loved  by  him,  she  had  forgot- 
ten her  state,  her  holiness  —  and  soon  she  was  his  wife. 

Yet  she  was  the  High  Priestess  before  the  people,  and 
the  priests  trembled  as  she  passed  them ;  while  she  her- 
self often  trembled  as  she  performed  the  mystic  symbolic 
rites,  and  she  thought  of  her  children.  For  she  had  two 
children  —  this  proud,  reverenced,  high  priestess  —  child- 
ren whom  she  loved  when  no  eyes  beheld  her  but  their 
own ;  often  she  ran  to  their  little  bedsides  when  she 
feared  they  might  have  been  discovered ;  but  up  to  the 


184  TALES  FBOil  THE  OPERAS. 

time  when  their  father  changed  towards  her,  no  one  but 
herself,  their  father,  and  the  faithful  Clotilda,  knew  of 
their  existence. 

For  the  Roman  grew  cold  to  her,  and  often  as  she  stood 
high  and  grand  at  the  altar,  her  heart  was  beating.  Yet 
she  knew  not  why  he  had  forsaken  her. 

Hark  to  the  pompous  march !  List  to  the  solemn  step 
of  marching  hundreds !  Who  are  these  coming  grandly 
in  the  night  through  the  sacred  grove?  These  are  the 
Druids,  the  pure  priests  dressed  in  heavy  white  garments, 
their  holy  beards  flowing  to  their  chests. 

See !  —  some  of  them  speed  to  the  hill-side  to  hail  the 
moon's  up-rising,  and  they  call  their  followers  to  prayers 
by  the  clashing  of  grave  bells.  When  the  moon,  the 
emblem  of  their  God,  is  throned  in  the  boundless  sky, 
Norma  will  come  to  gather  the  sacred  miseltoe  clinging 
to  the  holy  oaks. 

Hark,  how  they  vow  to  destroy  and  sweep  the  Romans 
from  the  land !  Grandly  they  pass  away  again,  chanting 
till  the  still  air  is  full  of  sound. 

But  who  are  these  two,  flitting  from  tree  to  tree  ?  — 
they  are  not  clothed  in  flowing  white  —  there  is  the  flash 
of  metal  from  their  limbs.  They  are  not  Gaul  or  Druids, 
they  are  Romans. 

The  one  is  Pollione  —  the  other  Flavio. 

"  Why  comest  thou  to  this  sacred  forest  —  has  not 
Norma  told  thee  death  lies  within  ?  " 

"  Why  hast  thou  uttered  that  dread  name  ?  " 

Hark !  he  doth  admit  he  loveth  her  no  more ;  the 
mother  of  his  children.  His  new  love  is  a  priestess  too, 
and  he  calleth  her  Adalgisa ;  he  hath  entreated  her  to  fly 
to  Rome  with  him.  Still  he  speaketh,  when  booming  on 
the  night  -air  is  heard  the  sound  of  bells,  and  behold  the 
air  is  suffused  with  soft  moonlight. 

Then  the  Romans  fled  —  for  again  the  sacred  march 
rippled  through  the  air;  louder  and  louder,  as  they  came 
to  the  high  altar.  Norma  —  proud  as  ever ;  defying  fear 
and  walking  grandly  amidst  them  all. 

On  she  comes  to  the  sacred  oak,  bearing  a  golden  reap- 
ing hook  in  her  right  hand.  High  she  mounts  the  steps 
of  the  grand  altar,  as  the  sacred  tires  flicker  in  the  breeze, 


XOKMA.  185 

and  as  the  stately  march  rolls  on.  She  knows  there  have 
been  mutterings  of  hate  against  the  Romans  —  fearlessly 
she  bids  them  live  in  peace  till  she  tells  them  to  raise 
their  arms.  Terribly  she  threatens  those  who  shall  take 
no  heed  of  what  she  says ;  she  stands  there  in  power 
unspeakable,  and  they  tremble  before  her. 

Then  she  cuts  the  sacred  misletoe,  and  as  it  falls  from 
the  trees  it  is  caught  in  a  pure  white  cloth.  High  does 
the  chief  priestess  cast  her  eyes  to  the  placid  moon,  aa 
she  prays  for  its  blessing. 

"  Chaste  goddess,  whose  silver  beams  deign  to  fall  on  our 
sacred  plant  —  let  thy  rays  come  to  us  unshadowed  by  a 
cloud.  Calm  these  rash  men  who  thirst  for  war ;  calm 
them ;  spread  over  our  land  the  peace  and  quiet  of  thy 
boundless  sky." 

See  how  they  bow  the  head  before  their  great  high 
priestess  as  she  addresses  the  greatest  emblem  of  their 
faith. 

Then  she  turns  her  face  from  the  illuminating  moon, 
and  high  above  them  speaks  the  ordeal  which  they  be- 
lieve their  god  speaks  to  them  through  her.  See  how 
they  bow  as  she  tells  them  she  —  she  only  will  utter 
the  war-cry  —  let  their  swords  rest  till  she  bids  them  flash 
from  their  scabbards. 

The  sacred  rites  are  ended.  Solemnly  the  reverend 
men  have  moved  away.  The  priestess  is  perhaps  fondling 
her  two  children.  The  sacred  fires  die  out,  and  for  a 
little  the  altar  stands  deserted  in  the  midst. 

Then  comes  Adalgisa,  trembling  and  prostrate.  See 
her  kneeling  before  the  altar,  the  sacred  fires  flickering 
dimly  here  and  there.  What  a  contrast  is  she  to  Norma, 
who  walks  proudly  and  fears  naught !  Adalgisa  is  bow- 
ing, trembling ;  no  mighty  prayer  issues  from  her  lips,  but 
a  timid  appeal.  Yet  she  thinks  of  the  Roman  who  loves 
her  and  whom  she  loves.  Then  as  she  confesses  this  to 
herself,  she  bows  lowly  before  the  altar  of  the  temple  she 
has  shamed  ;  and  yet  heavily  she  trembles  as  she  thinks 
of  the  chief  priestess  and  the  decree,  if  she  but  discovers 
that  Adalgisa  loves  the  enemy. 

Still  she  is  kneeling  when  the  Roman  conies  creeping 
softly  towards  her. 


186  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

She  cries  affrightedly  as  he  touches  her,  and  clings  to 
the  altar.  Yet  he  speaks. 

ITnrk  how  he  pleads! 

"  Thou  art  weeping." 

"  No,  no ;  but  I  pray  —  thou  durst  not  speak  to  me  as 
I  pray." 

"  '  Tis  a  false  God  thou  prayest  to.  Come  with  me  — 
come  with  me — pray  to  the  gods  /love — the  true  gods! " 

"  Let  me  go  —  let  me  go." 

"  Where  thou  goest  I  follow,  Adalgisa!" 

"Thou  mayest  not  follow  me  to  the  sacred  Temple!" 

"The  Temple  —  hast  thou  not  whispered  that  thou 
lovest  me?" 

"  Yet  do  I  offer  myself  to  the  service  of  the  Temple." 

"  Ah  !  if  thou  wouldst  sacrifice  —  let  my  blood  be  shed. 
Thou  wiliest  my  destruction." 

"  Hast  thou  not  willed  mine  ?  Didst  thou  not  whisper 
to  me  as  I  knelt  happy  and  innocent  at  the  altar  ?  " 

"  There  are  nobler  altars  in  Rome,  dearest.  Wilt  thou 
not  kneel  at  them  with  me  ?  " 

"  Rome  —  thou  goest  to  Rome  ?  " 

"  When  the  day  dawns  thou  wilt  go  with  me." 

«  No,  no." 

"  To  Rome  and  its  pleasures.  Doth  not  thy  heart  tell 
thee  thou  art  willing  to  be  with  me?  " 

"  Ah !  I  fear  thee." 

"Yet  thou  lovest  me." 

Hark,  then  —  oh  shame  upon  her  priestly  virgin  robes ; 
she  promises  to  see  him  yet  again,  and  then  to  fly  with 
him. 

See,  she  steals  away,  and  she  —  her  better  nature  rising 
—  will  to  the  arch-priestess  go,  and  seek  her  assistance 
and  advice. 


CHAPTER  IL 

YES  —  the  priestess  —  the  proud  priestess  is  now  the 
happy,  yet  fearing,  mother.  See  her  clasping  her  chil- 
dren, and  turning,  affrightedly,  to  the  mouth  of  their 
cavern-house  at  every  sound,  however  slight. 


NOKMA.  187 

The  sound  increases  —  'tis  a  footstep!  The  children 
arc  hurried  away,  and  the  next  moment  Adalgisa  is  at 
the  feet  of  the  high  priestess. 

She  tremblingly  tells  the  story  of  her  love.  But  the 
proud  Norma  is  not  angry — does  not  upbraid  her!  Why? 
Does  she  not  think  of  the  time  when  Pollione  whispered 
loving  vows  to  her? 

At  last  she  asks,     "  Who  is  he  —  thy  lover  ?  " 

"  Not  a  Gaul  —  a  Roman." 

"  A  Roman  —  and  he  is  named  —  " 

Again  a  footstep.  This  time  a  rapid,  haughty  one  — 
'tis  that  of  Pollione.  Well  he  knows  the  entrance  to  the 
house.  He  comes  to  see  Norma.  As  he  marks  Adalgisa 
he  starts.  And  she,  the  young  maiden,  says,  "  This  is 
he  —  this  is  he  who  loves  me." 

"He — Pollione!"  See  Norma  standing  proudly,  and 
yet  ns  though  turned  to  stone. 

"The  very  one." 

"  He !  —  do  I  hear  —  do  I  see  ?  " 

O,  the  world  of  anger  on  her  face  as  she  looks  upon  the 
man  before  her.  Now  she  knows  why  he  has  deserted 
her.  Now  she  learns  the  meaning  of  his  cold  words  and 
frequent  absences.  Then  vengeance  whispers  her  —  she 
has  but  to  call,  and  they  shall  both  die  —  he,  the  traitor, 
and  this  weak,  cruel  girl !  Then  jealousy  swept  over  her, 
and  she  eagerly  looked  at  her  rival.  But  Adalgisa  com- 
ing trembling  and  kneeling  near  her,  and  standing  far 
away  from  the  Roman,  she  was  full  of  pity,  and  she 
said :  — 

"  I  would  that  thou  hadst  died  —  I  would  that  thou 
hadst  died  before  thou  hadst  seen  him." 

Threateningly  raising  his  hand,  he  turned  to  go  his 
way,  but  she  commanded  him  to  stay ;  and  in  spite  of 
himself  he  did  remain.  Again  rage  possessed  her. 

"  I  read  thy  thoughts  —  but  is  she  not  in  my  power  — 
can  I  not  destroy  her?" 

"  Thou  shalt  not  do  this ! " 

"  And  shalt  thou  stay  my  hand  ?  " 

He  ran  to  Adalgisa  and  implored  her  to  fly  with  him 
—  but  the  virgin  drew  back  from  him,  and  again  clung  to 
Norma.  But  the  priestess,  jealous  to  blindness,  flung  the 
maiden  from  her,  and  bade  her  follow  her  paramour. 


188  TALES   FBOM   THE    OPERAS. 

"  Ah !  no  —  ah !  no  —  Norma." 

Suddenly  she  relented  —  bent  down  quickly  and  kissed 
the  acolyte.  Then  she  rose  toweringly  high  and  bade 
him  depart. 

w  Begone  —  forget  thy  vows,  thy  vows  —  begone !  1 
curse  thee.  My  voice  shall  whisper  to  thee  on  the  winds 
and  in  the  waves.  Go  —  alone  !  She  shrinks  from  thee, 
she  whom  thou  wouldst  destroy  —  I  defy  thee.  Go  — 
alone." 

He  met  her  look  at  first  —  but  soon  quailed  before  her. 
Then  with  his  eye  down-cast,  he  moved  towards  Adalgisa 
—  but  Norma  stood  defyingly  between  them. 

So  conquered  —  he  turned,  and  left  the  place. 

Behold  her  before  the  kneeling  girl  —  her  face  towards 
him  as  he  creeps  away  ;  firm,  defying,  protecting  —  she 
has  conquered  him  —  she,  the  sinning  high  priestess;  she, 
but  a  woman ;  she,  one  of  a  conquered  race  —  Norma ! 
She  has  fought  and  beaten  the  powerful  Roman.  She 
stands  proudly,  defiantly ;  he  creeps  away  abashed,  his 
very  life  her  gift,  the  gift  of  her  whom  he  has  deserted. 


CHAPTER  III. 

WHO  is*  this,  creeping  towards  two  sleeping  children  ? 
Who  is  this  with  an  uplifted  dagger,  and  an  awful  frown 
upon  her  face?  'Tis  Norma  —  mad  with  jealousy  and 
hate,  stealing  in  the  dark  to  kill  his  children  and  her  own. 

Nearer  and  nearer  the  infants  —  nearer  still ;  they  are 
sleeping  —  they  will  not  see  the  hand  that  strikes  them 
—  a  loving  hand  —  loving  hand  !  "If —  if  I  do  not  de- 
stroy them  —  if  they  live  here,  soon  or  late  the  flaming 
pyre  will  steal  them.  If — if  in  Rome,  they  would  bo 
slaves !  No,  no,  never  slaves!  Let  them  die.  Why  c;in 
I  not  strike  —  are  they  not  Pollione's  children?  What 
are  they  to  me  ?  He  is  dead  to  me  —  let  them  die  also." 

She  raises  the  savage  knife,  high  —  higher  still.  Then 
she  lets  fall  the  blade.  They  are  her  sons  —  they  are  her 
sons !  And  fearing  for  herself,  she  calls  to  Clotilda,  the 
faithful  keeper  of  her  secret,  and  bids  her  seek  out  and 
bring  Adalgisa  to  the  cavern  —  once  a  home  ! 


KOEMA.  189 

"  Adalgisa,  1  am  sick  to  death.  I  will  tell  thee  all  my 
shame.  Thou  hast  knelt  to  me  —  ah  well!  I  now  kneel 
to  thee.  Take  them  —  my  children,  and  guard  them  well 

—  for  no  more  have  they  a  mother.     Lead  them  to  him 

—  lead  them  to  him  —  bid  them  kneel  before  him !     Per- 
chance to  Adalgisa  a  kinder  husband  he  may  be  than  he 
has  been  to  Norma !     Take  them  ;  watch  over  them.     I 
ask  not  for  them  fortune,  honors.     I  only  ask  that  they 
may  not  be  slaves,  abandoned   and  forgotten.     Ah!   re- 
member, Adalgisa,  'twas  for  thee  he  did  forget  me." 

"Ah!  Norma — hope  yet  —  hope  ever.  I'll  to  the 
Roman  camp,  an-d  move  his  pity ;  and  all  may  yet  be  well ; 
hope  on,  hope  ever." 

High  and  proud  yet,  the  priestess  forbade  the  girl  to 
seek  Pollione ;  but,  turning  to  her  children,  for  their  sake 
she  faltered  ;  and  at  last  bade  Adalgisa  go. 

So  away  to  the  Roman  camp  went  the  maiden ;  while 
sick  at  heart,  the  high  priestess  lay  in  the  cavern,  weeping. 

Meanwhile,  the  Druids  were  planning  a  surprise  and 
massacre  -of  the  Roman  camp.  In  spite  of  the  high 
priestess's  commands,  they  had  met  to  plot,  and  at  their 
head  stood  Oroveso,  her  father.  Angrily,  and  with  heavy 
fy-ows,  they  met ;  angrily,  and  with  heavy  brows,  they 
separated  —  nerving  themselves  for  the  coming  blow. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

AGAIN  she  stands  near  the  altar  —  this  time  the  sacred 
spot  where  hangs  the  symbolic  shield,  which,  being  struck, 
gives  forth  the  sound  of  thunder.  None  but  Norma  may 
raise  this  dreaded  warning  —  none. 

As  she  stood  near  the  altar,  she  thought,  would  Adal- 
gisa be  successful  ?  Would  he  return  to  her,  repentant 
and  loving  ?  And  as  she  asked  herself  these  questions, 
behold  the  sun  was  overcast,  and  thunder  muttered  in 
the  air. 

Suddenly  Clotilda  ran  in ;  her  features  had  told  her 
message  of  dismay  —  Adalgisa  had  wept  and  prayed  in 
vain. 

As  she  stood  there,  her  first  thought  was  her  madness 


190  TALES  FBOM  THE  OPERAS. 

in  letting  the  virgin  go ;  that  she  could  have  been  so  weak 
as  to  let  him  look  upon  her.  Why  —  why  if  she  prayed 
and  knelt  to  him,  she  was  but  more  beautiful,  and  more 
surely  drew  his  love  upon  her.  Then  she  thought  that 
Adalgisa  bad  planned  the  appeal  to  the  Roman  but  to 
escape  from  her  fury.  Then  suddenly  she  relents,  for  the 
messenger  tells  how  Roman  honor  has  overcome  temptation. 
How  the  herald  has  been  held  sacred,  and  a  free  passage 
given  her  back  to  the  sacred  forest.  Her  face  softens  as 
Clotilda  tells  how  the  virgin  humbly  prays  that  she  may 
take  the  vows,  and  dedicate  herself  to  the  service  of  the 
Temple.  And  now  again  her  face  is  angered  ;  '  tis  at  the 
last  news  the  messenger  has  brought,  that  Pollione  has 
vowed  to  tear  Adalgisa  from  the  very  Temple  —  from  the 
very  altar. 

"  Let  the  blood  of  the  base  Romans  flow,"  she  cried. 
Then  quickly  she  turned  to  the  golden  shield,  the  sound 
of  which  emulated  the  rolling  thunder,  and  beat  on  it 
three  times. 

Then  arose  the  sacred  answering  cry  of  the  Druids,  and 
from  all  sides  came  they  running  towards  the  sound  — 
masses  on  masses  —  their  weapons  in  their  hands.  On 
they  came  —  in  they  rushed,  till  the  whole  temple  was 
filled  —  a  forest  of  angry  steel  ready  to  bathe  in  Romati 
blood. 

"  War ! "  she  cried  —  "  extermination  —  slaughter!  Sing 
ye  the  hymn  of  battle." 

Up  rose  the  sacred  hymn  —  high-sounding  amidst  the 
waving  oaks  —  floating  away  on  the  winds,  and  threaten- 
ing the  southern  invaders.  Louder  and  louder  spread  the 
sacred  war  cry  —  death,  destruction,  extermination !  — 
u  Let  the  Romans  fall !  Let  their  legions  be  mown  down 
like  grass!  —  Let  the  wings  of  their  eagles  strike  the 

f  round.    May  our  god  descend  on  the  rays  of  the  sun  to 
less  and  rejoice  in  the  triumph  of  his  faithful  children." 
Then  she  trembles  in  her  passion  as  she  sees  the  high 
priest,  her  own  father,  prepare  to  ask  the  question  she 
knows  that  he  must  ask. 

"AND    THE    VICTIM?" 

The  victim !  When  the  stern,  savage  Druids  warred, 
they  called  for  a  human  victim,  as  a  sacrifice  to  their  gods 


NOKMA.  191 

—  as  an  offering  and  atonement  for  their  sins  —  as  a  sacri- 
fice worthy  to  propitiate  their  gods  to  grant  them  victory. 

"  AND  THE  VICTIM  ?  " 

Slowly  she  replies :  — "  The  terrible  altar  never  lacks  a 
victim  ! " 

Suddenly  rose  loud  cries  of  anger ;  and  through  the 
thick  throng  of  worshippers  there  ran  several  armed 
Gauls,  bearing  in  their  midst  a  man  dressed  in  Roman 
garments. 

"  A  Roman  found  in  the  sacred  temple." 

Who  was  this  man  —  this  Roman?  She,  Norma, 
trembled  as  she  saw  him ;  and  she  whispered  the  word 
Pollione ! " 

There  was  a  suppressed  cry  of  joy  amongst  the  Druids 

—  their  gods  had  sent  this  sacrifice  —  this  Roman,  their 
enemy,  who  had  dared  to  enter  the  sacred  forest. 

"  Take  thou  the  sacred  sword  and  slay  him." 

He  who  spoke  was  Oroveso  ;  she  who  heard  —  she  who 
stretched  forth  her  hand  for  the  weapon  —  was  Norma. 

And  as  she  took  the  sword,  the  Druids  saw  the  Roman 
start  and  turn  pale,  and  they  said  amongst  themselves 
that  he  was  afraid. 

Slowly  she  came  down  from  the  altar,  the  shining 
weapon  in  her  hand.  Slowly  she  came  near  him  —  not  a 
pitying  look  upon  her  face.  Slowly  she  lifted  the  sword 
against  him,  as  he  raised  his  arm  to  receive  the  blow. 
And  then  —  then  she  was  weak ;  and  she,  the  high  priest- 
ess, let  fall  the  point  of  the  sacred  weapon  from  before 
the  enemy  and  the  victim.  In  a  mighty  voice  they  called 
forth  — -"  Slay  him  !  " 

But  she  said  she  must  question  him,  and  bade  them 
retire  for  a  little  space. 

Slowly  and  angrily  they  departed,  and  left  her  stand- 
ing alone  with  him  in  the  Temple. 

"  So  at  last  thou  art  in  my  power.  There  is  no  hope 
for  thee." 

"  I  do  not  fear  thee." 

"  Now  swear  —  swear  that  from  this  hour  thou  wilt 
think  no  more  of  Adalgisa,  and  I  will  give  thee  life,  and 
thou  shalt  go  from  before  mine  eyes." 

"  1  will  not  swear." 


192  TATES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

u  Dost  thou  know  that  my  rage  is  terrible  ?  w 

"  I  fear  not  thy  rage." 

«  And  thy  children  ?  " 

As  she  spoke  he  trembled,  and  with  a  cry  of  joy  she 
cried  out  that  he  feared  her  at  last. 

"  Spare  them  —  spare  them.    Let  me  die  alone." 

"  Thee  alone?  —  all  the  Romans  who  are  in  Gaul  shaL 
die,  and  even  Adalgisa  shall  perish  in  the  flames." 

"Pity!  —  pity!" 

«  What  ?  Canst  thou  ask  pity  of  Norma  ?  Ah !  she 
knows  no  more  what  pity  is.  See  how  I  sate  myself — 
how  I  glory  in  thy  fear  for  her,  and  for  yourself!  Thou 
shalt  suffer,  as  I  have  suffered." 

Then  she  struck  the  sacred  shield  once  more,  and  again 
the  priests  and  the  armed  men  came  swarming  to  the 
Temple. 

"Behold"  she  cried,  "I  have  found  another  victim  to 
your  rage.  A  priestess  forsworn  ;  who  hath  forsworn  her 
vows ;  who  hath  betrayed  her  country ;  who  hath  anger- 
ed the  god  of  her  people ! " 

With  one  vast  shout  they  asked  for  her  name. 

"Build  the  pile,"  she  said. 

Again  they  cried  out  for  the  name  of  the  accursed. 

Then  over  her  heart  swept  a  flood  of  pity  for  the 
maiden  she  was  about  to  denounce.  "  What  right  had 
she,  a  guilty  wretch,  to  revenge  herself  upon  an  innocent 
ci-eature  ?  Had  not  Adalgisa  pitied  her  ?  had  she  done 
her  any  wrong?  Could  the  poor  girl  save  herself  from 
loving  the  traitor?  Had  not  she  herself,  she,  Norma, 
fallen?" 

As  she  hesitated,  the  crowd  about  her  again  demanded 
the  offender's  name. 

Yet  she  hesitated.  Then,  turning  to  the  trembling 
Roman,  who  each  moment  feared  to  hear  her  name  the 
name  of  Adalgisa,  the  high  priestess  raised  her  right 
nand  to  her  head,  took  from  it  the  holy  wreath,  worn  as 
the  badge  of  purity ;  bent  low  her  head,  and  said,  "  I—  I 
am  that  guilty  one!"  So  her  better  nature  had  conquer- 
ed. All  pride  and  anger  gone !  In  her  rage  she  would 
Lave  denounced  Adalgisa;  but  her  sense  of  justice 
triumphed,  and  she  denounced  herself. 


NOEMA.  193 

With  a  world  of  shame  and  repentance  seething  within 
him,  the  Roman  cried,  "  No  !  believe  her  not,  she  speaketh 
knowing  not  what  she  sayeth  !" 

Still  hiding  her  face,  she  said,  "  Norma  speaketh  tho 
shameful  truth  ! "  And  she  saw  her  white-headed  father 
draw  away,  degraded,  from  his-  brethren. 

She  crept  up  to  her  husband,  and  in  her  looks  she  told 
him  what  a  loving  wife  he  had  destroyed.  Then  she 
whispered  it  was  a  destiny  that  they  should  die  together, 
their  ashes  mingling  on  the  same  pile,  and  the  same  winds 
scatter  them  abroad.  . 

All  his  old  love  for  her  returned  in  this  sublime  mo- 
ment. Joy  —  a  dying  joy  for  her  filled  all  his  soul.  She 
saw  him  look  upon  her  as  of  old,  with  loving  eyes,  though 
they  were  now  filled  with  pitying  tears.  "  Pardon ! " 
he  cried  —  the  most  blessed  words  she  could  hear;  for 
women  will  die  that  they  may  forgive  men ;  "  Pardon !" 

But  ere  she  could  speak,  her  father  crept  up  to  her, 
and  whispered  that  she  had  spoken  falsely —  that  she  was 
not  so  fallen  —  that  she  was  yet  pure.  Then  aloud  he 
ciied,  "If  the  unyielding  god  who  sees  us  holds  back  his 
angry  thunder  thou  art  guiltless !  "  Again  he  whispered, 
"  Norma  —  my  daughter  -^  thou  art  guiltless." 

What  is  it  that  she  says  which  makes  him  start  in 
horror?  What  is  it  that  makes  the  blood  redden  his 
aged  forehead  ?  She  has  told  him  of  her  children  —  her 
living  children. 

He  draws  his  robe  from  her,  as  though  pollution  were 
in  her  touch.  His  trembling  feet  bear  him  from  her  — 
his  daughter  —  the  once  proud,  magnificent  high  priest- 
ess. 

But  she  follows  him  —  prays  to  him  to  save  them.  Still 
his  head  is  erect,  and  his  eyes  are  tearless.  She  is  his 
own  flesh  and  blood.  She  bids  him  think  of  her  own 
early  days  ;  she  hoarsely  cries  that  in  a  few  minutes  she 
ehall  be  dead,  and  again  she  prays  him  to  seek  her  chil- 
dren, who  are  with  Clotilda,  and  to  watch  over  them. 
Gradually  his  head  falls  lower  and  lower  on  his  breast. 
At  last,  without  fear  of  pollution,  he  lays  his  hand  upon 
her  head,  and  promises  to  fulfil  her  last  desire. 

The  angry  priests,  muttering  together,  draw  near  — 
9 


194  TALES  FBOM  THE  OPERAS. 

fall  upon  her,  fling  over  her  the  black  veil  of  death,  and 
bear  her  away  to  the  burning  pile. 

High  blaze  the  flames,  lapping  about  her  —  falls  on  the 
body  of  the  slain  husband  the  flickering  red  light  —  the 
Roman,  who  has  died,  pierced  by  scores  of  wounds. 

The  victim  is  sacrificed.  Let  them  march  on  to  vic- 
tory. Their  god  is  appeased  !  the  sin  which  was  amongst 
them,  which  has  drawn  the  favor  of  heaven  from  them, 
is  purged  away  by  fire.  Now,  let  the  Romans  fall  —  let 
Gaul  be  free ! 

High  blaze  the  flames,  the  red  reflexions  shimmering 
from  each  white-robed  priest,  from  the  robes  even  of  her 
weeping  father.  Higher  and  higher  till  the  victim  is 
turned  to  light  ashes  for  the  wind  to  drift  whithersoever 
it  will  1 


ROBERTO  IL  DIAVOLO.     (MEYERBEER.) 

ROBERT  THE  DEVIL. 


THE  PROLOGUE. 

RICHARD  II.,  Duke  of  Normandy,  who  lived  some  forty 
years  before  the  conquest  of  Great  Britain  by  William, 
was  without  an  heir  to  his  dukedom.  He  prayed  wearily 
for  an  heir  —  but  never  a  child  had  he.  At  last  he  made 
a  vow,  in  the  presence  of  his  courtiers,  that  if  the 
demon's  power  could  grant  him  a  son,  he  would  dedicate 
that  son  to  the  demon  himself —  sell  him  and  his  soul  to 
the  fallen  angel ! 

The  courtiers  were  breathless  with  astonishment. 

Soon  they  remarked  a  change  in  the  king,  of  which 
he  himself  was  not  aware.  His  face  altered  —  his  brow 
grew  dark  and  heavy  —  his  step  slow,  firm,  and  yet  light. 
All  color  left  .his  cheeks,  and  his  lips  grew  pale  and  thin. 
The  veins  of  his  forehead  could  be  traced — a  deep  blue 
color  wandering  beneath  the  skin ;  and  his  eyes  grew 
mournful  in  their  light.  His  hair  fell  about  his  head  in 
deep  waving  folds  —  and  he  seemed  the  victim  of  utter 
despair.  Yet  he  was  known  by  all  as  the  duke  —  the 
same  as  ever,  and  yet  wholly  changed.  Nobody  who  had 
known  him  before  this  change  came  on  but  bowed  to  him 
as  the  duke ;  yet  all  who  had  so  known  him  whispered 
that  he  was  changed  as  never  man  changed  who  was  not 
possessed  of  a  devil. 

Then  great  wonders  began  to  be  marked  in  Normandy. 
Storms  would  rise  without  warning  and  sweep  over  the 
land  as  though  heaven  was  wrath.  And  while  the 
storms  lasted,  moans  were  heard  in  the  air  —  low,  wailing, 
gentle  moans  —  like  the  sighs  of  angels.  Then,  too,  from 
the  deep  caverns  came  loud  clattering  laughs  —  peal  on 
peal  —  like  mocking  thunder. 


196  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

Soon  it  became  known  that  an  heir  would  be  born  to 
the  duke.  Then  might  be  seen  stretching  across  tho 
heavens  a  great  flaming  sword  of  fire,  its  edge  ever 
trembling  and  surrounded  by  vaporous  clouds. 

At  last,  in  a  louder  strain  than  any  of  that  year  —  in 
the  midst  of  shrieking  winds  such  as  had  never  before 
been  heard  by  all  who  lived  —  the  heir  was  born.  Duke 
Richard  was  no  longer  childless ! 

Very  beautiful  was  the  child.  But  those  who  saw 
him,  noticed  that  his  features  were  like  his  father's,  that 
his  skin  was  colorless,  and  that  his  eyes  lacked  -the 
sparkling  brightness  of  infancy. 

The  attention  of  the  courtiers  being  fully  roused,  they 
began  to  observe  that  the  father  regained  his  old  looks 
and  ways.  His  color  came  back ;  his  eyes  again  flashed 
brightly,  the  sound  of  his  foot  was  again  heard,  and  once 
more  he  laughed.  And  they  said  among  themselves  that 
the  change  they  had  marked  was  caused  by  anxiety,  and 
that  now  his  son  was  born  to  him,  he  was  himself  again. 

Yet  a  few  years,  and  there  was  more  strange  court 
news.  The  child  was  as  no  other  child ;  he  would  tear 
birds  to  pieces,  screaming  with  joy  the  while ;  and 
waking  in  the  night, —  he  would  creep  from  his  bed, 
open  the  shutters  of  his  windows  to  the  wind,  and  re- 
main there  with  these  same  winds  tearing  about  his  head 
till  the  day  came  —  when  he  would  slink  away  to  his  bed. 
He  did  not  love  the  light,  and  when  night  time  came, 
then  only  was  it  that  his  eyes  sparkled. 

Yet  a  little  — and  then  it  was  known  that  he  only  was 
gentle  when  both  his  mother,  and  his  foster-sister,  Alice, 
were  with  him.  Then  he  was  as  child-like  as  any  other 
child,  and  would  lisp  his  prayers  quite  readily.  But  Alice 
away,  and  his  mother  distant,  again  he  became  the  strange 
weird  creature  he  was  whispered  to  be. 

Then  came  the  j-umor  a  few  years  later,  of  an  old  white- 
haired  man  being  found  dead,  a  child's  jewelled  dagger 
remaining  in  his  breast. 

Yet  a  few  more  years,  and  the  whispers  running  through 
the  court  trickled  out  amongst  the  people,  that  the  duke's 
son  was  a  demon ! 

Sad  grew  the  father,  sadder  and  sadder.    But  it  was 


BOBERTO   IL   DIAVOLO.  19  f 

remarked  that  though  his  face  grew  grave  and  thoughtful, 
it  was  quite  unlike  the  face  he  wore  in  that  awful  year 
before  his  son  was  bora.  And  then  it  was  whispered  that 
if  that  time  were  referred  to,  the  duke  seemed  lost,  confused, 
and  that  then,  and  only  then,  something  of  that  terrible 
look  could  be  seen  upon  his  countenance. 

At  last  the  heir  was  really  grown  a  man ;  as  handsome 
as  any  other  in  Normandy,  as  brave  as  any  knight  at 
court.  But  it  was  observed  by  many,  that,  handsome  as 
he  was,  there  was  still  a  threat  of  the  features  which  his 
father  wore  the  year  before  he,  Robert,  was  born. 

Soon  the  people  grew  to  detest  the  heir  to  the  throne ; 
for  he  swept  through  the  land  like  a  destroying  angel. 
They  abhorred  him,  and  then  it  was  they  called  him 
ROBERT  THE  DEVIL! 

Then,  broken-hearted,  utterly  cast  down,  but  never 
wearing  the  old  terrible  look,  the  father,  greyhaired  and 
weary  of  the  world,  exiled  his  only  son  from  Normandy, 
forbade  him  the  land  of  his  birth,  and  drove  him  from  it. 

Henceforth,  till  the  old  duke  died,  the  people  never 
felt  the  hand  of  "  Robert  the  Devil."  They  heard  of 
him,  brave,  fearless,  terrible  —  ever  conquering,  never 
conquered,  never  even  wounded.  They  heard  of  him,  a 
monster  —  firing,  destroying,  waking  up  war  wherever  he 
placed  his  foot ;  and  they  trembled  as  they  thought  of 
the  time  when  he  should  come  to  reign  over  them. 

Meanwile  the  old  duke  and  the  sorrowing  lady  prayed 
hourly  for  their  lost  son  ;  and  joined  in  their  prayers  the 
lost  son's  foster-sister,  ALICE. 


THE  LEGEND. 
PART  I.  —  THE  TEMPTER. 

A  \VORLD  of  tents — to  the  right,  to  the  left  —  before 
or  behind  — a  world  of  tents.  And  not  dismal  little  can- 
vas tents — but  brave  erections  in  cloths  of  gold  and 
silver,  and  gay  colors. 

Truth  to  tell,  all  this  was  evidence  of  a  tournament, 
given  by  the  Duke  of  Messina. 


198  TAXES   FROM    THE    OPERAS. 


y  knights  intended  to  compete  in  this  tournament. 
Hence,  that  sea-shore  near  Palermo  was  gay  as  a  garden 
with  colored  tents,  bright  gold,  shining  armor,  and  brave 
knights,  sumptuously  attired. 

But  no  braver  knight,  more  bravely  attended,  nor  sur- 
rounded with  more  magnificence,  was  there  than  the 
unknown,  whose  arrival  had  created  such  a  stir  in  the 
gorgeous  camp. 

This  unknown  knight,  as  he  came  from  the  tent  erected 
for  him  in  the  centre  of  his  people's  brilliant  little  encamp- 
ment, was  the  observed  of  all  observers. 

"  Dost  know  who  he  is  ?  " 

"  Wherefore  comes  he  ?  " 

"  I  have  heard  that  he  will  take  part  in  the  tournament." 

Calmly  the  unknown  knight  came  amongst  the  host  of 
gentlemen,  bowing  and  smiling  gravely.  They  made 
way  for  him  —  nay,  some  drew  forward  stools,  and  soon 
the  whole  body  of  knights  were  seated  about  tables,  more 
or  less  magnificent,  as  the  owner  knight  was  rich  and 
brave,  or  brave  only. 

But  he  who  drew  on  him  as  much  attention  as  the 
unknown  knight  himself,  was  his  companion,  a  tall,  solemn- 
looking  man.  His  brow  was  heavy  and  dark,  his  step 
slow,  firm,  and  yet  light  ;  no  color  was  in  his  face,  his  lips 
were  pale  and  thin,  and  the  veins  of  his  forehead  could 
be  traced  —  a  deep  blue  color  wandering  beneath  his  skin. 
His  eyes  were  mournful,  his  hair  fell  about  his  head  in 
deep,  waving  folds,  and  a  kind  of  settled  despair  seemed 
to  hang  upon  him,  and  weigh  him  down. 

This  companion  of  the  unknown  knight  was  dressed 
in  garments  of  sombre  hue,  which  hung  in  beautiful 
sweeping  folds  about  his  person.  His  hands  were  delicate 
and  white,  and  had  in  them  a  trembling  motion,  which 
was  at  great  variance  with  the  close,  firm  mouth  —  little, 
small,  delicate  hands,  beautiful  to  look  upon,  and  yet, 
somehow,  they  looked  like  claws,  the  fingers  seemed  to 
turn  so  naturally  to  the  palms. 

The  knights  commenced  drinking  and  dicing  at  the 
various  tables.  Still  the  strapger  knight  and  his  compan- 
ion sat  by  themselves  at  their  table  of'  bright  metal,  inlaid 
with  a  winding  pattern  of  jet. 


EOBEKTO   IL   DIAVOLO.  199 

Suddenly  the  companion  whispered  the  knight,  who 
thereupon,  with  a  smiling  face,  turned  to  the  body  of 
gentlemen  and  saluted  them,  raising  his  goblet  to  them, 
and  emptying  it  at  a  draught. 

The  knights  readily  responded  to  the  appeal,  and  the 
next  moment  began  conversing  gaily  with  the  two 
strangers. 

The  conversation,  however,  was  soon  interrupted  by 
the  arrival  of  two  men,  the  one  a  squire  of  the  stranger 
knight,  the  other  a  simple-looking  country  fellow,  carry- 
ing his  cap  in  his  hand,  and  looking  about  him  bashfully. 

"  Sire,"  said  the  squire,  softly,  "  this  pilgrim  is  a  song- 
ster, and  he  cometh  from  Normandy." 

"  Normandy  —  dear,  dear  Normandy,"  said  the  young 
knight,  and  as  he  spoke  the  words  he  looked  handsomer 
than  before. 

"  Dear  Normandy,"  said  the  grave,  noiseless  companion, 
as  the  hand  lying  on  the  table  twitched.  "Dear  Nor- 
mandy—  I  thought  she  had  driven  thee  from  her 
soil." 

The  young  knight  frowned  the  truth  of  these  few 
words ;  and  then  turning  to  the  pilgrim  troubadour,  gave 
him  some  money,  and  asked  him  what  he  could  sing. 

"  Ho  —  ho  !  "  said  the  minstrel,  laughing  and  yet  trem- 
bling in  the  presence  of  the  splendid  company.  "  Ho  — 
ho !  I  can  sing  all  songs ;  but,  my  faith,  the  best  is  the 
history  of  our  young  duke,  whom  they  call  Robert  the 
Devil.  He  hath  the  evil  eye  on  him,  my  masters." 

Here  he  turned  to  the  crowd  of  warriors  who  were 
drawing  near,  and  did  not  mark  the  young  knight  place 
his  right  hand  quickly  upon  his  dagger. 

"  Sing  of  Robert,  minstrel ;  sing  of  Robert  the 
Devil." 

Again  the  companion  spoke.  w'Tis  but  a  poor  min- 
strel'." 

The  knight,  obediently,  it  seemed,  moved  his  hand 
from  the  weapon,  and  said,  "  True ! "  Then  loudly  he 
called  to  the  minstrel,  "Begin,  thou." 

"  Oh,  long  ago,  in  Normandy, 

A  valiant  prince  there  chanced  to  reign; 

He  lived  in  peace  —  his  wife  he  loved, 
And  yet  he  lived  a  life  of  pain. 


200  TALES  FKOM  THE  OPERAS. 

No  child  had  he;  for  years  and  years 

He  knelt  at  shrines — he  knelt  and  prayed; 

But  all  in  vain  —  yes  all  in  vain 
Was  every  sacrifice  he  made. 

Then  loud  he  swore,  before  the  court, 

That  if  a  son  to  him  were  born, 
He  would  devote  him  to  the  fiend, 

And  let  his  soul  from  Heaven  be  torn. 

And  then  in  time  there  came  a  son, 

Of  all  the  land,  the  dread  and  shame  — 

Robert  —  Robert  —  the  demon's  own; 
And  truly  he  deserves  the  name. 

Not  long  ago  —  but  at  this  day 

The  valiant  prince  —  if  you'll  believe  — 

He  lives  —  he  lives  —  as  does  the  son, 
For  whom  the  duke  doth  ever  grieve. ' ' 

As  the  gallants  laughed  at  the  ballad,  and  the  earnest- 
ness with  which  it  was  sung,  the  minstrel  stood  with  his 
back  to  the  young  knight.  The  next  moment,  the  poor 
wanderer  felt  himself  thrown  to  the  ground ;  and,  looking 
up,  he  saw  a  bright  dagger  high  in  the  air  above  him. 
But  restraining  the  holder  of  it,  was  a  small  white  hand, 
the  fingers  of  which  seemed  clawed  about  the  other's 
wrist. 

" '  Tis  but  a  poor  minstrel ! "  he  also  heard  a  voice 
say. 

Again  the  angry  hand  gave  way,  and  fell  to  the  young 
knight's  side ;  but  he  bade  some  of  his  people  seize  the 
unlucky  singer. 

"  I  am  Robert,"  he  cried  haughtily,  and  looking  with 
defiance  at  the  knights. 

"  The  fiend ! "  cried  the  minstrel,  falling  on  his  knees. 

"An  hour  for  thy  prayers,  and  the  hour  following 
thy  purgatory!  The  next  tree  shall  bear  thee  as  its 
fruit." 

"  Good,  my  prince  ;  verily  we  have  come  all  the  way  to 
see  thee,  bearing  a  holy  message." 

"  Message  —  we  • —  who  is  your  companion  ?  " 

"  She  who  shall  be  my  wife,  if  thou  wilt  let  me  live, 
master." 

u  A  Normandienne,  Bertram ;  a  Normandlenne.    Are 


EOBERTO  IL  DIAVOLO.  201 

there  any  women,  think'st  thou,  their  equals?  "Well, 
minstrel,  thy  wife's  eyes  have  gained  for  thee  a  pardon. 
Send  her  hither." 

*'  Good  master." 

"  Thou  art  courageous ! " 

Some  well-meaning  man-at-arms  here  gruffly  pulled  the 
young  minstrel  away ;  and  the  last  he  saw  of  Robert  was 
that  he  turned  inquiringly  to  the  knights,  and  that  they 
all  seemed  eager  to  please  him  and  be  near  him. 

Yet  quickly  he  turned  from  the  knights,  as  he  heard  the 
footsteps  of  several  men  approaching,  and  with  them  the 
patter  of  a  pair  of  light  feet. 

Then  came  in  the  midst  of  those  rough,  shaggy  men- 
at-arms,  a  young,  pure-looking  girl.  She  had  one  of  those 
faces  not  eminently  beautiful,  and  yet  at  which  you  gaze 
with  a  kind  of  awe ;  holiness  too  proud  to  ask  the  aid  of 
mere  beauty !  Men  seemed  to  grow  better  as  they  look- 
ed upon  this  holy  young  fa«e. 

"  Alice,  dear  Alice  —  my  sister  Alice ! " 

"My  prince  —  my  prince!"  and  the  young  creature 
flung  herself  upon  the  ground  near  Robert. 

" '  Tis  my  sister,  gentlemen  —  our  breath  mingled  on 
the  same  breast."  And  stooping  he  lifted  Alice  from  the 
ground. 

Strange  —  his  face  seemed  much  lighter  than  it  was, 
and  his  very  voice  happier  and  freer. 

As  for  his  companion,  whom  he  called  Bertram,  he  rose 
from  the  table,  kept  his  eyes  from  the  girl,  and  moved 
away  —  farther  away  —  farther  away  —  till  he  was  lost  to 
sight  in  the  midst  of  the  tents. 

The  knights  and  gentlemen  about  seemed  to  know  that 
she  would  speak  to  him  privately,  for  they  withdrew,  and 
soon  left  a  wide  space  between  themselves  and  the  girl 
Alice. 

"  Prince,  Alice.  Call  me  not  prince.  For  I  am  to  thee 
ever  brother.  So,  thou  hast  come  to  see  the  exile?  I 
h:ive  striven  to  die  since  last  I  saw  dear  Normandy;  but 
I  bear  a  charmed  life,  methinks.  And  now  here,  Alice, 
love  itself  is  my  enemy.  But  thou  dost  not  say  why  thou 
h:ist  come." 

"  My  duty  hath  brought  mo  hither." 
9* 


202  TALES  rnoM  THE  OPEHAS. 

"Thou  wast  ever  dutiful." 

"The  duty  I  owe  to  a  dear  mistress  bringeth  me  to 
thee." 

"Thou  dost  speak  of  my  dear  mother  whom  heaven 
bless." 

"  Then  is  she  blessed  in  heaven." 

«She — my  mother!" 

"  And  when  thou  shalt  next  see  her,  thou  shalt  be  in 
heaven  too." 

"  Dead  —  dead  —  my  mother  dead ! " 

As  he  spoke  Bertram  glided  from  behind  one  of  the 
tents,  but  the  next  moment  was  lost  again.  He  turned 
his  face  angrily  away  as  tears  fell  from  the  young  knight's 
eyes. 

" '  Go,'  thy  mother  said,  *  go,  my  Alice,  to  him,  and  say 
that,  though  he  has  made  my  heart  bleed  all  his  life,  I 
love  him  heartily;  that  my  last  thoughts  are  for  him; 
that  I  will  pray  for  him  and  watch  him  through  his  dark 
hours  of  temptation.  Tell  him  a  terrible  power  enwraps 
him,  but  thou  —  thou,'  and  she  laid  her  hands  upon  my  head, 
O  brother  — '  thou  shalt  be  his  guardian  spirit.  I  know 
that  I  may  will  it  so.  The  hour  must  come  when  between 
me  and  the  evil  I  have  named  my  son  must  make  his 
choice.  Be  thou  near  him  then,  O  Alice,  be  thou  near 
him,  that  he  may  pass  surely  on  the  narrow  way  to  me ! ' 
Then  she  lay  down,  whispering  that  she  would  her  son 
were  by  to  close  her  eyes  —  and  so  thy  mother  died." 

He  hung  his  head  and  wept  for  pity  and  for  love  of 
that  dear  mother. 

"  You  weep,  my  brother.  I  have  yet  more  to  tell  thee. 
Before  she  spoke  these  last  sad  words,  she  placed  a  paper 
in  my  hands  —  her  will  —  and  she  said,  *  Bid  him  read  it 
when  he  thinks  he  is  worthy  to  read  it.'  " 

"  That  is  not  now,  Alice.  Keep  this  will ;  something 
tells  me  'tis  best  in  thy  hands.  Kead  my  mother's  will 
now!  now  that  I  am  borne  down  with  sorrow,  against 
which  I  do  rebel  with  all  my  strength.  And,  sister 
Alice  —  I  love  a  lady  who,  I  fear,  doth  dread  me." 

"Dread  thee?" 

"  She  is  the  princess  of  Sicily.  Her  father  looked  on 
me  with  but  a  troubled  eye —  and  so  1  strove  to  steal  her. 


ROBERTO   IL   DIAVOLO.  203 

But  they  fought  bravely  for  their  princess,  and  they 
saved  her.  I  was  down  —  down  upon  the  ground,  and  I 
feared  never  more  to  see  my  own  dear  land  —  when  a 
noble  knight  came  to  my  rescue  and  delivered  me. 
They  fell  before  his  arm  as  the  blades  of  corn  before  the 
reaper.  He  saved  me  and  he  is  my  dear  friend,  my  dear 
loving  friend ! " 

As  he  spoke,  Bertram  was  standing  not  far  offj  his  face 
wearing  a  grave,  almost  a  gracious  smile,  and  his  white 
right  hand  high  above  him  playing  with  the  folds  of  a 
flame-red  tent. 

"  And  the  princess,  brother  —  does  she  love  thee  ?  " 

"  Alas,  sister  —  how  should  I  know  ?  " 

"  Nay  —  write  to  her." 

"And  who  shall  be  my  herald  ?" 

«  Who  —  I  will  be  thy  herald ! " 

He  called  quickly,  and  from  his  tent  came  a  page.  To 
this  child  he  gave  a  rapid  order,  and  the  next  minute  he 
was  writing  a  letter  to  the  lady  whom  he  would  have 
stolen.  When  he  had  finished,  he  pressed  the  hilt  of  his 
dagger  on  the  seal,  as  was  the  custom  of  the  day. 

"Go  —  sister  of  mine  — fortune  be  with  you !" 

As  she  turned,  she  saw  the  knight,  Bertram. 

She  was  not  afraid  of  him,  but  she  seemed  to  know  he 
was  her  enemy. 

"  Brother  —  who  is  that  man  ?  " 

M  Ah  —  Bertram  !  This  is  the  noble  friend  I  told  theo 
of —  wherefore  dost  thou  regard  him  so  strangely?" 

"  At  home,  in  our  village  church,  there  is  a  picture 
which  tells  how  the  Archangel  conquered  Satan;  and 
methinks  I  see  in  this  man  a  resemblance  to  —  " 

"The  Archangel?" 

"  No,  verily,  the  other." 

*'  Ha !  —  go,  sister." 

She  obeyed  him  with  a  kind  of  fearless  fear  —  a  courage 
mixed  with  a  desire  to  avoid  this  man. 

"  Thou  art  on  good  terms  with  thy  conquest." 

"  Gratitude,  Bertram." 

"  A  good  word  —  a  good  word." 

"Were  I  bluntly  candid,  Bertram,  I  should  say  that 
near  thee  I  never  feel  so  honost  as  when  thou  art  distant  j 


201  TALKS  FBOM  THE  OPERAS. 

but  now  as  I  stood  by  Alice,  I  marvelled  much  how  I 
seemed  to  enjoy  all  things  about  me,  and  how  much  I 
felt  inclined  to  good." 

"  I  love  thee,  Robert,  as  a  father  would  his  son  —  his 
only  son." 

"Aye — but  truly  the  advice  of  a  father  is  ever  godly." 

"Is  it  likely  I  am  the  fiend?  Tush!  —  drown  your 
cares;  rejoin  the  knights  and  cavaliers  —  do  as  they  do  — 
thou  art  no  icorse  than  they  I " 

"  Verily ! " 

"  And  thou  art  rich  !  " 

Diligently  the  white  knight,  as  the  knights  began  to 
call  the  pallid  Bertram  —  diligently  the  white  knight 
arranged  the'  gaming  tables,  and  when  his  friend  took 
the  dice-box  into  his  hand,  he  came  and  stood  near  him, 
slightly  smiling. 

.  "  Thou  shouldst  double  the  stakes,  Robert,"  said  the 
white  knight,  after  the  youth  had  lost  freely.  "  Fortune 
hates  the  niggard  hand.  Double,  friend,  double."  And 
here  the  white  hand  gathered  up  the  dice. 

"  Well,  double  the  stakes ! " 

"  Nay  —  if  thou  treblest,  then  thy  chance  is  almost  a 
surety." 

"Treble  the  stakes!" 

Thrown,  and  lost. 

"  Fortune  hates  the  niggard  hand ;  hesitate  not  — 
play!" 

Again  the  rattle  of  the  dice  was  heard,  again  the 
knight  lost. 

Again,  and  yet  again,  he  played  and  lost!  Then  he 
even  wagered  the  jewels  from  his  robe ;  then  his  horses, 
and  his  armor.  Yet  with -fell  purpose  fortune  turned  her 
back  upon  him. 

"  Fortune  doth  try  thee,  Robert.  Still  tempt  her :  she 
loveth  the  brave." 

Again  he  plays  —  again  he  loses. 

"  Gold  is  only  a  bauble  — fling  it,  fling  it,  fling  it  away." 

At  last  he  had  played  away  all  —  all!  There  was  yet 
the  sword  at  his  side,  and  the  dagger  with  which  he  had 
threatened  the  poor  minstrel.  Another  moment  and  they 
were  lost  too.  He,  Robert  of  Normandy,  had  disarmed 
and  beggared  himself, 


ROBERTO   IL   DIAVOLO.  205 

But  in  a  moment  his  natural  rage  swept  over  him  and 
he  was  frantic.  With  a  threatening  look  at  the  knighta 
about  him,  he  wrested  a  battle-axe  from  a  soldier  near  at 
hand,  and  was  flying  madly  at  the  victorious  group. 
Then  indeed,  Bertram  showed  himself  a  loving  frkii  I. 
He  held  the  youth  back,  he  entreated  the  gentlemen  to 
pardon  his  ungracious  anger.  He  shielded  him.  And  all 
the  while  he  trembled  like  a  woman. 


PART  II.    THE  DECREE. 

NOT  far  from  the  camp  stood  the  poor  minstrel,  wait- 
ing for  his  sweetheart  Alice.  While  he  was  waiting,  the 
knight  Robert's  catastrophe  was  achieved,  and  he  was 
lying  in  the  white  knight's  camp ;  lying  with  his  face 
upon  the  ground,  and  the  will  to  evil  strong  within  him. 

Raimbault  the  minstrel  waited  for  some  little  time,  and 
was  beginning  to  think  Alice  would  never  come ;  when 
he  heard  a  footstep,  a  light  footstep,  like  but  yet  unlike 
the  step  of  Alice.  He  turned,  and  before  him  stood  the 
knight  Bertram,  his  face  more  pallid  than  ever  in  the 
moonlight. 

"  Thou  art  Raimbault." 

"  Verily ;  whom  the  knight  Robert  would  have  hanged." 

"  He  hath  a  strong  will.     Wherfore  art  thou  here  ?  " 

"  To  meet  Alice,  my  good  wife,  so  please  thee." 

"  She  is  very  poor." 

"  She  hath  a  rich  heart,  and  is  no  poorer  than  I." 

"  See,  now,  thou  art  richer  than  she  is  now." 

"  Verily,  he  hath  given  me  gold  ;  real,  real  gold  ! " 

And  the  minstrel  did  not  read  contempt  in  the  pale 
face;  contempt  that  gold  should  make  men  happy. 

•"  Thou  art  noble,  and  I  will  obey  thee." 

(Oh  !  man,  man,  how  weak  art  thou.)  "  So  thou  art  to 
be  married  'i  " 

"  Yes,  now  that  the  young  prince  has  been  discovered." 

"Folly!" 

"Folly,  nay,  Alice  is  a  good  girl !  " 

"Good!     Weie  I  thee,  I  would  wait,  and  be  joyful. 


206  TALES   FEOM   THE   OPEKAS. 

Thou  art  rich;  with  gold  man  can  do  all  things;  and  I 
have  given  thoe  gold." 

"  Verily." 

"Be  happy — --feast— sin!  Thou  art  young,  there  is 
time  to  repent  —  time  to  repent!  (He  smilcth  ;  his  eyes 
brighten ;  he  is  lost.)  Go,  good  Raimbault,  Alice  will 
follow  thee ;  she  may  be  thy  slave.  Go,  go  ! " 

The  minstrel,  weak  and  maimed  with  evil  thoughts, 
went  away  stumbling  in  the  darkness. 

Then  the  smile  passed  away  from  Bertram's  face  — 
there  was  only  to  be  read  in  it  terrible  despair  battling 
with  small  hope !  As  a  faint,  warning,  unearthly  sound 
swept  through  the  air,  he  trembled ;  and  then  he  mutter- 
ed that  he  had  gained  another  soul !  That  he  should 
have  mercy  shown  him  —  mercy  to  him,  the  ambassador! 
Again  the  wild  cry  swept  through  the  air,  and  Bertram's 
head  fell.  Clasping  his  hands  together,  he  moved  slowly 
into  a  deep  lightless  cavern,  and  was  lost  in  the  darkness. 

Treading  lightly  through  the  moonlight  then  came 
Alice,  to  meet  Raimbault,  who  was  surely  waiting  for  her 
—  surely. 

«  Raimbault  —  Raimbault ! " 

No  answer. 

"  When  I  bade  Normandy  adieu, 

Thus  said  a  hermit  sage  to  me, 
Damsel,  to  one  beloved  and  true, 
Thou  shall  e'er  long  united  be. 
Raiiubault  —  Raimbault !  " 

The  wild,  wailing  cry  swept  past  her  very  lips  as  she 
ended  her  little  ditty.  As  she  heard  it  she  trembled,  and 
felt  sure  the  very  ground  below  her  shook. 

She  began  to  run  away,  afraid,  but  a  single  word  detain- 
ed her — a  single  word,  streaming  through  all  the  air  — 
"Kobert!" 

"Robert!"  She  knew  her  duty  was  to  watch  over 
him  till  he  had  read  his  mother's  will,  so  she  stood  still, 
trembling  no  longer.  Then  she  thought  the  sound  came 
from  a  dark  corner  near,  and  lightly  walking  to  it,  she 
peered  in,  and  then  drew  back  with  mighty  fear.  She 
sped  quickly  to  a  rustic  cross  by  the  roadside  j  she  fell  at 
its  feet,  and  lay  senseless. 


EOBEKTO   IL   DIAVOLO.  207 

Forth  from  the  cavern  came  the  white  knight.  The 
doom,  then,  was  irrevocable;  unless  Robert  freely  gave 
himself  up  —  and  before  the  morrow  —  they  would  be 
parted.  Parted  from  Robert,  whom  he  loved  so  much. 
"  By  his  own  will  —  by  his  own  will,  he  must  be  won." 

Suddenly  he  turned,  as  he  heard  a  weak  womanly  cry, 
and  he  saw  Alice  lying  at  the  foot  of  the  cross. 

"Thou  here,  Alice?  What  ailest  thee  ?  Thou  dost 
draw  away.  Nearer  — •  come  nearer ;  nearer,  I  say.  Dost 
fear  me  ?  " 

Still  she  clung  to  the  cross,  the  closer  and  more  firmly 
as  he  approached. 

"  What  didst  thou  hear  ?  " 

"  Nothing." 

«  What  didst  thou  see  ?  " 

"  Nothing  —  nothing." 

"  Come  near  me." 

With  a  loud  cry,  she  crossed  herself. 

"  Ah !  thou  knowest  me ! " 

"I  do  not  fear." 

"  Thou  shalt  surely  perish,  utterly  —  thou  and  thine  ! 
What  hast  thou  seen?  What  hast  thou  heard  ?  " 

"  Nothing  —  nothing." 

«  By  a  lie  thou  fallest." 

As  she  flinched  from  him  she  saw  Robert  approaching, 
his  head  drooping,  and  his  hands  clasped. 

"  Speak  not  —  fall  away  from  the  cross  thou  hast 
shadowed.  Fall  away,  I  say." 

By  the  power  of  the  untruth  she  had  spoken,  she  was 
for  a  while  conquered.  Yet  as  Robert  came  near  them, 
she  felt  her  strength  renewed.  She  ran  to  him  to  warn 
him.  But  yet  again  she  was  weak.  The  white  knight 
mised  high  his  glistening  right  hand,  and  she  fled. 

"  What  aileth  her?  " 

"  She  is  jealous  of  thee.  Ah  well  —  wilt  thou  not  look 
upon  thy  best  friend  ?  " 

"  Best  friend  —  thou  art  my  only  friend  on  earth  !  " 

"  Earth  —  what  is  earth  ?  But  thy  fortune  —  Robert — 
thy  fortune  !  I  tell  thee  'twas  wrested  from  thee  by  un- 
holy arts.  Regain  it  by  them.  Where  others  have  ven- 
tured fear  not  to  venture  thou !  " 


208  TALES   FEOM   THE   OPERAS. 

u  What  —  can  the  demon  have  power  on  earth  ?  " 

"Power!  Power!  There  is  but  one  power  equal,  or 
superior  to  his  own.  Power !  Hast  thou  courage  —  is 
thy  heart  firm?" 

"  Lay  thy  hand  upon  it  ....  ah,  thou  seerast  to  burn 
me  with  thy  touch  —  take  thy  hand  away." 

"  Thy  heart  is  firm ;  —  e'en  now  firmer  than  before. 
Thou  hast  heard  of  the  ruined  abbey,  whose  inhabitants 
with  itself  were  delivered  to  the  powers  of  hell." 

"  I  have  heard,  but  not  believed." 

"  Believe.  In  the  midst  stands  the  tomb  of  Bertha  — 
why  dost  thou  tremble  ?  " 

"'Twas  my  mother's  name  —  'twas  my  mother's 
name." 

Think  of  thy  fortune,  Robert !  Those  who  go  to  this 
tomb  —  speak  not  to  the  mysterious  beings  they  see. 
But  —  over  the  marble  effigy  waves  a  branch  of  cypress. 
Who  holdeth  it  holdeth  power  —  POWEB  !  wouldst  thou 
be  powerful  ?  " 

"  Feel  my  heart  again  —  I  fear  not  thy  hand  now  ! " 


PAKT  III.— THE  FALL. 

A  WILD  spot :  the  accursed  cloisters,  where  once  lived 
sinning  nuns.  A  wild  spot,  lighted  now  and  then  by  the 
moon,  when  its  light  could  flit  down  between  the  jagged, 
angry  clouds  which  rushed  floating  by.  The  light  showed 
a  sombre  square  of  burial-ground,  covered  with  marble 
tombs,  whereon  lay  effigies  of  the  dead ;  solemn  white 
figures,  still,  still  as  death. 

But  something  now  moves  in  this  accursed  spot. 
Treading  lightly  through  the  moonlight  comes  a  solemn- 
looking  man,  with  small,  white,  claw-like  hands.  Arrived 
in  the  midst,  he  lifts  these  terrible  hands  above  his  head, 
and  then  he  speaks  —  "  O,  ye  impious  women  who  sleep 
beneath  these  stones,  shake  from  you  your  troubled  slum- 
ber, and  awake.  '  Tis  I  condemned  as  you,  who  speak. 
But  for  an  hour  take  life;  move,  breathe,  and  then  sink 
to  your  weeping  sleep  again ! " 

See  —  the  white,  sleeping  figures  move.    The  ground 


EOBEKTO   IL   DIAYOLO.  209 

breaks  in  long,  ugly  cracks.  Stones  are  up-heaved,  and 
trembling  green  lights  flicker  where  once  sacred  altars 
stood.  Slowly,  forms,  something  like  human,  stand  here 
and  there,  uncertain  of  themselves  and  each  other,  as  with 
ghastly  eyes  they  doubtingly  peer  into  the  darkness. 
Then,  with  noiseless  steps,  they  approach  and  touch  each 
other,  stepping  from  side  to  side,  as  again  and  again  a 
figure  rises  from  the  ground.  At  last,  there  are  hundreds 
of  these  grim  phantoms.  Gradually,  life  seems  to  grow 
brighter  in  their  faces.  At  last,  they  even  smile ;  and 
then,  behold,  they  are  as  human-looking  as  the  pale, 
\inyielcling  moon  will  let  them  look. 

"  Ye  hopeless  —  hear  me !  A  warrior  whom  I  love 
shall  come  to  pluck  the  weeping  cypress;  if  he  trembles,  se- 
duce his  better  soul  from  him,  and  with  all  your  earthly 
charms,  strive  to  destroy  him,  Rejoice — rejoice  —  for  thou 
knowest  whither  I  would  lead  him." 

Again  with  his  light,  solemn  step  he  passed  away  —  his 
hands  now  clasped  within  each  other. 

Suddenly  the  weird  figures  seemed  to  shudder,  as  with 
evil  eyes  they  marked  the  warrior's  fearful  coming. 
Hiding  behind  pillars  and  broken  stones  they  watched 
him.  He  hesitated  —  then  came  forward.  Then  again 
he  stopped.  At  last  he  stood  near  the  cypress,  which 
waved  above  the  tomb  of  the  abbess.  But  as  he  stretch- 
ed his  hand  to  pluck  the  fatal  branch,  he  looked  upon  the 
statue  of  that  abbess,  and  the  face  seemed  as  the  face  of 
his  mother,  wrathful  and  angry.  He  fell  back  stunned 
and  speechless. 

Then  out  trooped  the  living-dead  —  their  features  no 
longer  ghastly,  but  full  of  wicked,  sensuous  life.  They 
surrounded  him ;  they  tempted  him ;  in  a  circling  band 
they  drew  him  to  the  fatal  cypress.  Yet  he  hesitated. 
Then  they  held  to  him  a  golden  cup,  brimming  Avith  deli- 
cious wine.  Drinking  it,  again  the  evil  look  was  in  their 
faces.  But  when  he  returned  the  cup,  they  smiled  again. 

At  last  he  plucked  the  branch,  and  held  it  in  his  hand. 

Then  the  faces  turned  again  to  hopeless  death.  The 
figures  screamed  in  their  joy  about  him  —  loudly  and 
more  loud. 

While  he  —  his  heart  now  failing  him  —  shrank  down 


210  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

upon  the  ground  and  hid  his  eyes  with  his  hands  —  ono 
of  which  still  clasped  the  terrible  cypress  branch. 


PART  IV. —  THE  CYPRESS  BRANCH. 

WHILE  this  horrible  scene  was  being  enacted — away 
in  her  father's  palace  was  the  lady  whom  Robert  loved  — 
the  lady  who  also  loved  him  —  the  princess. 

The  Princess  Isabelle  of  Sicily  sat '  watching  the  mag- 
nificence about  her.  It  seemed  to  mock  her  sorrows. 
The  King  had  decided  upon  marrying  her  to  the  Duke  of 
Grenada,  a  Spanish  noble. 

Her  solitude  was  broken  by  the  entrance  of  a  few 
young  maidens,  who,  after  the  custom  of  the  time,  took 
advantage  of  the  intended  marriage  to  present  petitions 
to  the  bride. 

Among  the  girls  who  thus  entered  was  one  superior  to 
the  rest.  She  had  a  pure-looking,  almost  holy  face  —  not 
more  beautiful  than  any  there,  perhaps,  but  glowing  in  its 
purity  and  high  resolve. 

This  young  creature  presented  a  letter  to  the  princess. 
Isabelle  took  the  paper  languidly  enough,  but  no  sooner 
Lad  she  glanced  at  it  than  her  face  sparkled  with  joy. 

'  Twas  the  letter  Robert  had  given  Alice  before  the  sun 
went  down.  '  Twas  Alice  who  now  gave  the  letter  into 
the  hands  of  the  young  princess. 

Happily  Isabelle  read  the  letter;  but  her  happiness 
was  of  short  duration,  for  barely  had  she  finished  it  than 
her  tirewomen  came  forward  to  deck  her  for  the  bridal. 

Then  came  grand  lords  and  ladies  of  the  court  —  a  full 
procession  —  to  accompany  the  bride  to  the  palace 
chapel. 

They  stood  without  the  great  room  and  upon  the  wide 
staircase  leading  to  the  broad  open  doors.  They  were 
talking  gaily  and  looking  towards  the  princess,  when  sud- 
denly the  breath  of  death  seemed  to  pass  ovor  and  among 
them.  Their  words  faltered  on  their  lips  —  their  hands 
fell  listlessly  to  their  sides;  and  though  they  could  sec 
and  hear,  they  had  no  power  to  move.  They  saw  no 


ROBERTO   LA   DIAVOLO.  211 

figure  of  a  wild-looking,  handsome  man,  waving  on  high 
a  black,  sweeping  cypress  branch.  They  saw  the  doors 
close  of  themselves,  and  remained  motionless,  like  statues 
grouped  about  the  marble  stairs. 

Slowly  he  came  on,  his  face  now  almost  the  counter- 
part of  Bertram's.  On  and  on,  to  the  spot  where  the 
princess  sat,  immovable  like  the  people  on  the  stairs. 
She  saw  no  one  before  her  eyes;  she  sat  wondering 
what  the  sudden  silence  meant,  when  suddenly  before 
her  stood  Robert — surely,  and  yet  not  with  Robert's 
face. 

He  waved  the  branch  over  her  fair  head,  and  broke 
the  spell. 

"Robert!  Robert!" 

He  looked  upon  her  with  a  love  so  terrible  that  she 
cried  — 

"  Save  me  —  save  me  from  him ! " 

"  Thou  art  beautiful,  and  I  love  thee  !  Thinkest  thou 
I  would  tamely  leave  thee  to  another?  Look  on  me! 
Not  the  Robert  thou  didst  once  know.  Look  on  me ! 
Mark  on  my  face  the  hellish  joy  I  feel  in  seeing  thee ! " 
And  he  asked  himself  how  he  could  look  upon  her  fear 
and  grief,  and  feel  no  pain  ? 

"  Robert,  thy  eyes  are  fire,  and  thou  lookest  on  me  as 
thou  of  all  men  least  should  look.  What  is  thy  power 
—  and  thy  knightly  oath  —  and  thine  honor  ?  Hast  thou 
forgotten  them  ?  " 

"  Hate  knows  no  honor,  Isabelle,  and  love  is  often 
hate." 

"'  Tis  not  too  late,  Robert !  But  now  I  saw  thy  old 
self  again  upon  your  face.  Robert,  be  thyself.  Fly,  or 
they  will  kill  thee !  " 

"  I  here  am  master ;  tremble  —  bow  before  me.  None 
can  see  me  —  none  can  move  but  at  my  will.  Thou  art 
lout  —  lost  —  lost !  " 

The  Princess  fell  on  her  knees  and  clasped  her  hands. 

For  a  moment  he  trembled,  but  then  again  his 
face  was  as  Bertram's  face,  and  he  cried,  "Thou  art 
lost !  " 

Then,  as  she  knelt  to  him  —  "Robert,  Robert,  thou 
whom  I  so  love  —  to  whom  1  gave  my  troth,  look  on  me; 


212  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

look  on  my  terror !  Mercy  !  For  thyself,  mercy !  For 
me,  also,  mercy !  Think  of  thy  faith  —  thine  honor !  As 
you  love  me,  mercy  !  See  me,  at  thy  feet.  Robert,  Robert, 
thou  whom  I  so  love,  mercy  —  mercy !  " 

He  doubts,  he  trembles,  then  his  face  changes  to  its  old 
expression,  as  he  stoops  and  lifts  her  from  the  ground. 
«  Thou  hast  saved  thyself." 

"And  thee,  too,  Robert." 

"  Nay,  thou  hast  destroyed  me." 

"I  —  destroyed  thee ! " 

**  I  cannot  live  away  from  thee  ;  let  me  then  die." 

And,  in  a  rage  of  agony  and  disappointment,  he  tore 
the  branch  to  atoms. 

As  he  did  so  the  spell  was  broken.  The  lords  and 
ladies  on  the  stairs  moved  and  spoke ;  and  one  of  them, 
pushing  open  the  great  doors,  saw  the  knight  flinging 
from  him  the  remains  of  the  cypress,  and  saw,  also,  the 

Princess  stand  apart,  one  hand  trembling  before  her  white 
ps. 

A  moment,  and  there  was  a  violent  and  terrible  noise 
of  swords  torn  quickly  from  their  scabbards. 

The  princess  put  out  her  hands  beseechingly  for  him. 
But '  twas  useless ;  fifty  sword  points  were  directed  at  his 
heart.  Towards  them  he  ran  fearlessly,  his  warrior  face 
—  the  old,  good  face  —  all-powerful  now. 

Suddenly,  a  knight  was  beside  Robert,  fighting  for  him. 
Steadily  this  new  combatant  beat  a  way  for  the  beleaguer- 
ed knight,  and  at  last  regained  for  him  and  for  himself 
free  air  and  liberty. 


PART  V. —  THE  REDEMPTION. 

"  BERTRAM,  thou  must  come  with  me.  See,  here  is  {he 
cathedral ;  wilt  thou  not  enter?  The  sanctuary  is  sacred, 
and  none  will  dare  try  to  move  me  from  it.  Come." 

"  So,  thou  brokest  the  mystic  branch  ;  thy  heart  failed 
thee." 

"  Oh,  it  should  not  fail  me  again." 

"  There  is  yet  a  means ! " 


ROBERTO  IL  DIAVOLO.  213 

"Yet  a  means  ?  Name  it;  I  care  not  what — I  will  obey." 

"  Thou  shalt  sign  a  solemn  pledge." 

"  Surely,  Bertram,  surely." 

The  white  knight  took  a  quivering  paper,  from  his  very 
bosom,  as  it  seemed ;  dipped  a  reed  in  an  ink  horn  at  his 
side,  and  offered  both  to  the  young  knight. 

As  he  was  about  to  take  them  his  hand  trembled  —  not 
from  fear,  but  because  of  a  soft  hyrnn  which  welled  forth 
from  the  cathedral  —  a  hymn  of  praise,  sung  by  reverend 
old  monks  and  faithful  nuns. 

"  What !   dost  thou  again  tremble  ?  w 

"  'Tis  the  hymn  my  mother  often  sang  to  me  in  the 
days  of  my  innocent  childhood.  Hark,  again ! " 

Yet  once  more  the  sacred  sounds  swept  through  the 
air,  "  Holy,  holy,  holy." 

The  white  knight  turned  away  and  frowned ;  but  as  the 
sound  died  out  he  said,  "  Come,  let  us  go.  What,  again 
thou  tremblest  ?  " 

"  How  gentle  does  this  music  make  me.  As  I  hear  it  I 
have  no  fear  —  feel  no  hate.  Again,  dear  sounds,  again." 

Yet  once  more  the  hymn  arose,  "  Holy,  holy,  holy !  " 

"  He  would  be  free !  What,  shall  all  my  hope  be  de- 
stroyed ?  Neve" ! " 

"  I  am  happy,  I  am  happy ! " 

"  Wherefore  ?  That  thy  rival  is  blest ;  that  they  offer 
up  prayers  for  him  ?  " 

"  Again  ;  again." 

"Go  also;  kneel  humbly  —  humbly ;  and  pray  for  his 
welfare  too !  Go,  coward." 

The  knight  looked  quickly  at  Bertram ;  gazed  earnestly 
into  his  face ;  and,  as  the  religious  sounds  again  spread 
through  the  air,  he  cried  out :  — 

"  BERTRAM,  THOIT  ART  MY  GREAT  ENEMY  ! " 

("Is  there  no  mercy  for  me?  I  his  enemy!)  I  thy 
enemy,  Robert  ?  Do  I  not  love  thee  ?  Who  supported 
thee  in  battle,  whose  arm  hath  been  thine,  who  would  lay 
all  the  riches  of  the  world  at  thy  feet  ?  I,  who  am  —  " 

"Thou  who  art — " 

"  Dost  thou  remember  the  whisperings  in  thy  home  ? 
Thy  living  father,  who  was  changed,  and  thy  mother's 
woes  ?  canst  thou  not  guess  my  name  ?  " 


214  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

The  youth  looked  on  the  white  knight  for  a  moment ; 
then,  with  a  flood  of  tears,  he  was  on  his  knees  before  this 
strange  being;  his  arms  around  the  white  knight's  waist, 
and  Bertram  s  small  white  hands  resting  on  his  head. 

"  Fear  not ;  I  will  never  leave  thee ! 

Then  Robert  saw  the  face  above  him  change.  lie 
turned  quickly,  and  found  Alice  standing  there. 

«  Robert ! " 

The  white  knight  stood  before  her  toweringly;  but, 
as  she  stepped  forward,  he,  with  all  his  power,  was  forced 
to  give  way. 

"  Robert,  I  bring  thee  a  happy  message.  The  duke  of 
Grenada  cannot  pass  the  holy  threshold  of  the  cathedral." 

"  Come,  my  son,  leave  this  woman." 

"  And  the  princess  awaits  thee." 

M  Come,  let  us  depart,  Robert." 

u  Thou  darest  not  forget  thy  oath  to  her." 

"  Hasten,  Robert,  the  clock  is  near  the  hour,  the  last 
hour  of  my  stay.  We  may  not  part,  my  son  —  my  only 
son  —  we  may  not  part." 

"  My  heart  turns  to  thee  —  yet  my  vow ! " 

"  But  thy  duty  —  thy  duty ! " 

"  Our  duty,"  cried  Alice.  "  Our  duty  is  to  him  whom 
thou  fearest."  And  without  fear  she  stepped  up  to  the 
white  knight. 

"  My  son  —  my  only  joy  —  thou  wilt  not  hear  her !  " 

"  Let  him  hear  me  —  I  speak  as  I  am  bidden." 

"  See,  Robert ;  here  is  the  parchment.  Turn  from  her, 
fix  thine  eyes  upon  me,  and  let  us  go,  to  be  for  ever  near 
each  other." 

"And  thy  mother's  will  —  O  Robert."  Quickly  he 
turned  from  the  tempter  to  the  holy  maiden,  who  held  in 
her  hand  his  mother's  will. 

"  My  son,  turn  thy  face  from  her,  and  look  on  me." 

"  My  mother's  writing  —  my  own  mother ! " 

As  he  perused  the  paper  Bertram  stretched  forth  his 
hands  towards  the  youth,  placed  them  pleadingly  together, 
and  even  wept. 

The  knight  read  the  paper,  and  then,  looking  up  from 
it,  the  white  knight  knew  that  his  power  was  gone,  for 
Robert  drew  away  from  him,  and  taking  the  hand  of 
Alice,  placed  it  on  his  own  head. 


KOBEKTO  IL  DIAVOLO.  215 

As  he  did  so,  the  clanging  of  the  church-bell  told  them 
that  midnight  was  come. 

Then  despair,  horrible  despair,  crept  over  the  face  of 
the  white  knight.  He  came  one  step  forward,  placed  his 
trembling  claw-like  hands  above  the  head  cf  the  saved 
knight  and  vanished.  Vanished  in  the  black  night,  as  a 
wailing  cry  filled  all  the  air. 

Saved !  the  good  spirit  had  saved  him — the  good  spirit 
working  through  a  poor  country  girl ! 

See  him  creeping  to  the  church  he  spurned  till  now. 
Saved  —  saved ! 

"  Holy,  holy,  holy ! "  Behold  the  sanctuary,  and  the 
sacred  priests,  ready  with  open  arms  to  receive  the  sinning, 
but  now  repentant  Robert ! 

And  so  was  the  spell  his  father's  wicked  vow  entwined 
about  his  life,  for  ever  broken  and  destroyed.  So  was 
.Robert  the  Devil  transformed  to  Robert  the  Man,  loving 
and  beloved. 


IL    TROVATORE.    (VERDI.) 

THE  MINSTREL. 

PART  I. — THE  DUEL. 

IN  the  fifteenth  century,  and  away  in  Spain,  lived  the 
Count  de  Luna  —  he  was  as  handsome  as  he  was  impla- 
cable, and  folks  said  he  was  as  implacable  as  death. 

In  the  fifteenth  century  too,  and  in  Spain,  a  great  lord 
was  a  petty  king,  and  would  as  frequently  make  war 
against  his  neighbor  on  his  own  account,  as  on  account  of 
their  common  country. 

But  proud  and  implacable  as  he  was,  he  had  bowed  to 
the  power  of  love,  and  weak  and  pliant  in  the  presence 
of  the  Lady  Leonora. 

His  castle  was  always  well  defended  —  for  attacks  might 
be  made  on  it  when  least  expected.  Attached  to  his  cas- 
tle was  a  palace  with  superb  grounds.  On  the  approach 
of  danger  both  palace  and  grounds  were  deserted,  and  all 
communication  between  them  and  the  castle  was  cut  off 
by  the  up-heaving  of  heavy  draw-bridges. 

One  night  the  guard-room  of  the  palace  was  filled,  as 
usual,  with  soldiers  off  duty  and  various  servants ;  but 
both  soldiers  and  servants  were  half  asleep.  This  being 
observed  by  Ferrando,  he  woke  them  up  by  saying  it  was 
near  the  count's  time  for  passing  through  the  room. 

Said  a  man,  One  had  better  sing  or  tell  tales  if  he 
would  have  "  us  "  keep  awake. 

The  proposal  being  generally  approved  of  by  the  com- 
pany, Ferrando  settled  himself  easily  in  his  seat,  and  told 
them  the  old,  old  tale. 

"  Draw  about  me  —  all  of  ye.  Thus  it  was.  The  old 
count  had  two  dear  sons  —  the  cares  of  his  heart.  Well 
—  they  were  sleeping  peacefully  —  their  good  nurse  near 


IL   TROVATOEE.  217 

them,  when  she  awoke  and  saw  —  now,  my  comrades  — 
what  did  she  see?" 

"  Go  to !  "  —  and. "  go  on ! " 

"  A  hag  —  of  a  verity,  a  hag !  And,  of  a  verity,  she 
screamed  aloud,  which  brought  about  her  a  score  or  so 
of  frightened  men,  who  bestruck  themselves  strong  enough 
to  drive  forth  the  hag  with  many  a  blow.  Well,  what 
then,  my  comrades  ?  " 

"Aye— what  then?" 

The  child  dwindled  till  his  flesh  was  as  colorless  as  the 
white  of  thine  eye,  Gomez.  Nay,  start  not,  man.  And 
he  hath  screamed,  as  child  has  never  screamed  before. 
Wherefore  and  thereupon,  my  comrades,  they  did  search 
out  the  hag  —  fall  upon  her  bravely,  and  fitly  burn  her. 
But,  my  faith,  she  had  a  daughter.  By  the  rood,  such  a 
daughter !  She  hath  sworn,  my  comrades,  as  I,  man-at- 
arms,  would  never  so  beswear  myself,  she  hath  sworn  to 
destroy  the  little  one;  and  .she  hath  done  it;  —  for  he  is 
lost  —  gone — and  there's  an  end,  on't." 

"  And  therefore  hath  the  old  count  died  ?  " 

"  He  hath  died  o'  heart-crack,  a  sore  complaint,  my 
comrades." 

"  And  the  living  count ?  " 

"  Interpose  not  thy  remarks,  youth.  The  living  count 
hath  sought  for  his  brother,  and  hath  not  found  him. 
And  I  will  wager  my  chain  here,  which  I  won  in  honest 
fight,  —  that  never  shall  human  eyes  see  him  again.  But 
mark  you  this  :  —  I  could  tell  the  thief —  I  could  tell  her 
—  yea  —  marry,  could  I." 

The  castle  bell  began  to  toll,  whereat  a  marvellous 
trembling  came  upon  the  men-at-arms.  Then  was  heard 
the  roll  of  a  drum.  The  time  to  relieve  guard  had  ar- 
rived, so  the  story-telling  crowd  dispersed. 


Go  we  now  to  the  gardens  of  the  palace,  where  the 
moon  looked  down  upon  two  female  forms,  the  lady 
Leonora  and  Ines,  her  confidante.  Leonora  had  been 
telling  Ines  of  her  love  for  some  unknown  knight.  She 
had  seen  him  at  the  last  tournament — where  he  appeared 
in  dark  mysterious  garments  and  carried  a  shield  without 
10 


218  TALES   FROM   THE    OPERAS. 

armorial  bearings.  He  gained  the  laurel ;  and  she,  —  she 
placed  that  laurel  crown  upon  his  brow.  But,  alas !  — 
almost  immediately  after,  came  news  of  a  civil  war,  the 
assembly  within  a  day  dispersed,  and  with  the  rest  wont 
the  unknown  warrior.  But — but  a  few  nights  since  she 
hnard,  near  her  casement,  the  plaintive  notes  of  a  guitar 
and  words  of  a  plaintive  song.  Drawing  near,  she  heard 
her  own  name  sighed,  —  again  and  yet  again  ;  till  the  very 
air  seemed  to  breathe  forth  the  name  of  Leonora. 

" '  Twas  he  —  by  the  pale  moonlight  she  saw 'twas  he." 

"  I  would,  lady,  that  you  forgot  him." 

"Counsel  easily  given,  Ines,  but  not  kindly  taken. 
Come,  let  us  return  to  the  palace." 

Scarcely  had  they  departed  when  the  Count  di  Luna 
came  softly  towards  the  palace  windows,  that  he  might 
be  near  his  beloved  Leonora.  The  garden  was  bathed 
in  the  light  of  the  virgin  moon. 

As  he  approached  a  window,  from  which  streamed  the 
rays  of  a  taper,  he  started ;  for  a  voice  he  well  knew  be- 
gan to  carol  forth  a  song  —  the  voice  of  the  troubadour, 
who  had  dared  approach  the  palace  windows,  night  after 
night,  for  many  nights. 

"  O'er  the  lands  of  the  earth 
He  hath  wandered  from  birth; 
He  hath  much  —  wants  no  more, 

Does  this  same  troubadour. 
He  hath  treasure,  I'm  told, 
Quite  surpassing  all  gold, 
'  Tis  a  lady  —  no  more. 

He's  a  rich  troubadour." 

Hardly  had  the  last  words  floated  away  on  the  air  than 
the  window,  behind  which  was  the  taper,  opened  on  to 
the  broad  terrace.  The  next  moment  the  Lady  Leonora 
was  softly  coming  down  the  broad  steps  to  the  green 
lawn. 

As  she  reached  the  foot  of  the  marble  stairs,  she  saw  a 
manly  figure.  Guessing  it  to  be  that  of  the  singer,  she 
ran  and  put  her  arms  about  the  new  comer's  neck. 

"Thou  art  late.  I  have  counted  the  moments  for  thy 
coming." 


IL    TKOVATORE.  219 

But  the  voice  of  her  lover  sounded  many  steps  away, 
crying,  "  Faithless  one  ! " 

And  then,  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  which  had  seemed 
darkness  to  her,  coming  from  the  illuminated  chamber, 
she  perceived  how  terrible  had  been  her  mistake. 

"  Maurico,  thy  Leonora  thought  this  man  to  be  thyself ; 
he  hath  not  yet  spoken;  by  his  voice  I  should  have  learnt 
my  fault." 

The  count,  in  a  whirl  of  rage,  cried,  "  He  is  but  a 
coward  or  a  sinner  who  wears  a  mask  —  remove  that 
mask." 

The  troubadour  took  off  his  mask. 

"  Thou,  Maurico,"  said  the  count.  "  Thou !  —  pro- 
scribed —  condemned  to  death  —  a  rebel." 

"Defeat  thy  rival,  count,  by  calling  here  thy  guards." 

"  The  only  guard  I  call  is  this  —  an  honorable  one." 

And  the  noble  drew  his  sword.  "  Thou  shalt  degrade 
its  blade." 

The  troubadour  quickly  drew  his  sword,  and  the  count 
was  rushing  upon  him,  when  cried  the  former,  "  Softly, 
count.  Brave  men  quarrel  not  in  the  presence  of  tremb- 
ling women." 

"  Follow  me ! "  cried  the  count ;  and,  spite  of  all  the 
entreaties  of  the  lady,  the  rivals  strode  on  to  some  seclu- 
ded spot  that  one  might  slay  the  other. 


PAET  II. —  THE  GIPSEY. 

AMONG  the  gipsies!  —  the  gipsies — then,  as  now,  and 
as  who  knows  through  how  many  hundreds  of  years?  — 
daring,  brave,  handsome,  light  hearted  rovers ! 

In  Spain  the  zingaras,  or  gipsies,  have  ever  increased 
and  multiplied.  The  land  seems  to  foster  them  kindly ; 
and,  at  the  period  of  our  tale,  they  were  so  numerous, 
that  quarrelsome  or  rebellious  nobles  would  frequently 
enlist  the  sympathies  and  strong  arms  of  the  tribe.  Often  / 
and  often  the  prowess  of  the  zingaras  provided  the  turn- 
ing points  of  the  Spanish  victories. 

The  band  of  gipsies  to  which  the  troubadour,  Maurico, 


220  TALES   PEOM   THE    OPERAS. 

belonged  had  taken  part  in  the  rebellion  against  the  king. 
Hence  the  expressions  used  by  the  count  when  he  discov- 
ered Maurice  in  the  palace  gardens. 

The  gipsies  were  encamped  within  and  about  a  dilapi- 
dated old  building,  amid  the  mountains  of  Biscay,  not  far 
from  the  castle  of  the  Count  di  Luna.  In  their  encamp- 
ment they  sang,  and  laughed,  and  danced  as  though  they 
were  masters  of  the  earth,  instead  of  being  surrounded 
by  danger,  and,  possibly,  near  to  death ! 

The  flickering  flames  of  a  wood  fire,  which  shone  on 
the  faces  of  the  wild  band,  paled  before  the  coming  day. 
But  there  was  yet  sufficient  light  to  see  Maurico,  muffled 
in  a  cloak,  lying  at  the  feet  of  a  stern-looking  gipsey 
woman,  whom  they  called  Azucena. 

Suddenly  this  woman  started  from  her  sleep  —  stood 
up  —  came  a  step  or  so  forward  —  and  cried,  "  Look  — 
look  ye !  See  how  the  flames  dart  at  her,  as  she  is  dragged 
along.  Look  ye,  how  they  all  crowd  about,  and  are  merry 
over  her  trouble  —  a  poor  gipsey  led  to  death!  See  how 
their  faces  are  bathed  in  blood!  There!  she  screams  in 
her  agony;  and  higher,  and  yet  higher  the  mocking 
flames  rise  about  her;  and  now  I  see  her  no  longer. 
Gone  —  gone  —  gone  ! " 

Suddenly  she  came  to  herself,  and  half  whispered, 
"  Vengeance !  I  will  have  vengeance." 

"Still  that  word,  mother,"  said  the  troubadour,  Maurico, 
rising  from  his  hard  bed. 

As  the  sun  lit  up  the  shadows  in  their  dark  skins,  the 
gipsies  moved  away  in  various  direetions.  Presently,  the 
gipsey-mother  and  gipsey-son  were  alone  together. 

Suddenly  she  began  again  to  speak  of  her  terror. 
"She  was  accused  of  witchcraft  —  my  mother;  and  they 
burnt  her  here  —  here,  on  this  very  spot.  I  see  her,  thick 
chains  hanging  about  her  limbs,  dragged  to  this  very  spot. 
I  stood  near,  holding  thee  in  my  trembling  arms.  In  vain 
she  sought  to  bless  me ;  they  struck  down  her  hands, 
and  drove  her  forward.  Then  it  was  she  cried  aloud, 
'  Avenge  me!'  And  canst  thou  not  read  the  words  here 
—  here  on  my  face  ?  " 

"  And  thou  didst  obey,  my  mother?  " 

u  I  stole  the  old  count's  son.    The  child  wept  and  clung 


IL   TROVATORE.  221 

to  mo.  Why  should  I  pity  him  ?  They  had  shown  HES 
no  mercy.  Here  with  him  I  came  —  a  fire  blazing  as 
when  my  mother  died.  I  closed  my  angry  eyes,  raised 
high  the  child  above  my  head,  and  dashed  it  screaming 
on  the  burning  embers.  Then,  looking  forth  again,  I  saw 
—  I  saw  —  the  count's  own  child  still  living." 

"  Then  thou  hadst  destroyed  —  " 

"  My  son  —  my  own  dear  son." 

And  she  grovelled  on  the  ground,  hiding  her  face  with 
her  hands. 

"  Then  am  not  I  thy  son  ?" 

Suddenly  she  looked  up  fearfully.  "Yes — yes,  boy, 
thou  art  my  son  —  my  own  dear  son." 

"  And  yet  thou  didst  say  —  " 

"  Ne'er  heed  what  I  say,  son,  for  am  I  not  sometimes 
daft  ?  Thy  mother  —  have  I  not  been  a  tender  mother  to 
thee  all  thy  life?" 

"  There's  not  a  day  that  I  recall  when  thou  wast  other- 
wise." 

"  Did  I  not  save  thy  life,  my  son  —  my  own  dear  son  ? 
When  they  said  you  lay  dead  on  Pelilla's  field,  did  not  I 
seek  thee  —  find  thee  —  cure  thee?  Thinkest  thou  I 
would  do  all  that  for  the  stranger  ? ' 

"  A  noble  wound !  If,  when  Di  Lima  rushed  upon  me 
with  his  score  of  men,  I  fell  —  I  fell  as  falls  a  soldier, 
mother." 

"  Di  Luna !  And  so  he  rendered  thee  reward  for  the 
life  thou  gavest  him,  when  he  stood  before  thee  in  a  duel, 
and  was  conquered.  Thou  shouldst  love  Di  Luna,  e'en  as 
thy  brother ;  Di  Luna,  whom  thou,  my  son,  hast  spared." 
And  she  laughed  scornfully. 

"  I  may  not  know  wherefore,  but  when  my  sword  was 
pointed  at  him  —  when  the  next  moment  I  should  have 
slain  him  —  some  power  held  back  my  sword,  and  I  heard 
whispered  in  mine  ear  the  word,  'Mercy!'" 

"  But  if  again  thou  meetest  him,  thou  dost  promise  to 
slay  him  —  without  mercy  ?  Slay  him,"  she  said  again, 
as  if  to  herself,  and  turned  away  without  waiting  for  his 
reply. 

As  she  turned,  a  trumpet  sounded  near  at  hand. 

A  herald  appeared,  and  brought  Maurico  a  scroll  from 


222  TALES   FROM   TITE    OPERAS. 

the  rebel  chief,  in  whose  ranks  lie  and  his  people  now 
fought.  The  stronghold,  Castellor,  had  been  wrested  from 
the  royalists,  and  Maurieo  was  ordered  to  take  its  com- 
mand. The  scroll  also  incidentally  mentioned  that  the 
Lady  Leonora,  believing  in  Maurice's  death  in  the  late 
fight,  was  about  to  take  the  veil  in  a  neighboring  convent, 

The  gipsey-mother  saw  him  turn,  and  quickly  fling  his 
cloak  about  him,  and  place  his  helmet  on  his  head. 

"  Whither  goest  thou?  " 

«  To  duty." 

"  I  command  thee,  stay." 

"  But  my  general  commands  me." 

"  And  thy  wound  !  thou  must  not  leave  me.  It  may 
open  again  ;  and  if  I  am  not  near  thee,  son,  thou  mayst 
die ;  therefore  thou  shalt  not  go." 

For  answer,  he  wrapt  his  cloak  more  closely  about  him. 

She  threatened  him,  but  it  was  \iseless.  Soon  she  was 
gazing  after  him  as  he  wended  his  way  down  a  mountain 
pass. 


Go  we  now  to  the  cloisters  of  the  convent,  where  the 
luckless  Lady  Leonora  was  about  to  take  the  vows  that 
were  to  separate  her  for  ever  from  the  world. 

Love  had  humiliated  and  degraded  the  count,  as  it 
hath  humiliated  and  degraded  many  a  better  man.  As 
he  could  not  honestly  possess  himself  of  the  Lady  Leo- 
nora, he  had  now  come  to  steal  her  —  tear  her  away 
from  the  altar.  He  had  not  come  alone,  for  love  had  also 
made  him  a  coward.  He  had  brought  with  him  a  score 
or  so  of  his  followers  to  snatch  her  from  amongst  a  host 
of  women. 

See  them  hiding  behind  pillars,  and  in  shadows,  creep- 
ing softly  and  meanly,  as  robbers  and  cowards  do. 

Then  came  the  widowed  Lady  Leonora,  surrounded  by 
old  friends,  who  would  fain  accompany  her  to  the  door  of 
her  life-long  prison. 

She  sighed  as  she  heard  the  low  religious  chant  from 
within  the  walls  of  the  convent  —  henceforth  to  shut  in 
all  her  hopes.  But  she  was  determined.  He  was  dead 


IL    TUOVATOKE.  223 

—  her  love.  Killed  on  the  battle-field,  and  she  would 
mourn  for  him  in  the  silence  of  a  convent  cell. 

"  With  good,  hearty  old  friends,"  said  she  to  the  atten- 
dants about  her,  "  see  me  to  the  altar,  and  then  —  a  long 
farewell." 

But  as  she  turned  towards  the  sacred  door  the  count 
came  quickly  from  behind  a  broken  pillar,  and  trembling- 
ly said,  "  Nought  can  save  thee  —  thou  art  mine." 

"  Mercy ! " 

"  There  is  no  Maurico  now  to  save  thee.  He  is  dead  — 
he  is  dead." 

He  ran  towards  her,  but  suddenly  he  stopped,  and 
trembled  like  a  coward,  as  he  was.  For  there,  standing 
between  him  and  his  expected  prize,  was  the  minstrel, 
Maurico  himself!  Standing  there  was  the  very  man  he 
had  seen  fall  on  the  field  ;  or  —  or,  was  it  his  shade  ? 

And  Leonora  ?  After  an  instant  of  doubt  and  hesita- 
tion —  for  she,  too,  believed  her  lover  was  not  of  this 
world  —  she  ran  to  him,  and,  with  a  great  cry,  threw  her- 
self upon  his  breast. 

The  consternation  of  the  dastardly  count  hardly  gave 
him  much  time  for  deliberation;  but,  on  a  signal,  his 
followers  swarmed  out  from  their  hiding  places,  and 
surrounded  the  lovers.  But  they  reckoned  without  their 
host.  The  next  instant  Maurico  and  the  Lady  Leonora 
were  protected  by  trusty  arms. 

In  vain  the  count  drew  his  sword  and  rushed  upon  the 
troubadour.  Twenty  swords  were  pointed  at  him  — 
twenty  swords  that  in  an  instant  would  have  touched  his 
heart.  But  their  leader,  Maurico,  who  still  suffered  from 
his  wound,  bade  them  spare  him. 

So  the  count  yet  stood  alive  in  the  midst  of  his  follow- 
ers. Stood  unsubdued  by  the  mercy  which  had  now  been 
shown  him ;  stood,  and  ^owed  vengeance  against  his 
gentle  foe ;  stood  and  cursed  him  as  he  led  the  lady 
away.  Away  from  him,  the  rival ;  away  from  the  con- 
vent, away  to  Castellor,  which  had  fallen  into  the  rebels ' 
hands,  and  whose  governor  was  Maurico,  the  Warrior 
MinstreL 


224  TALES   FROM   THE    OPERAS. 


PART  III. —  THE  GIPSEY'S  SON. 

SURELY,  mercy  may  sometimes  be  a  fault,  if  extended 
to  a  heartless  man. 

The  Count  di  Luna  held  his  life  by  the  great  mercy  of 
the  gipsey  stranger,  but  he  determined  to  reduce  the 
castle,  whose  master  was  that  gipsey,  hoping  that  he 
might  yet  destroy  a  hated  rival.  No  breath  of  gratitude 
was  in  his  heart.  He  thought  only  of  revenge,  and 
turned  away  his  face  from  the  light. 

The  count's  camp  was  pitched  within  a  mile  of  the 
doomed  castle.  The  count's  soldiers  were  lying  about  — 
playing,  singing,  gambling,  and  polishing  up  their  arms  — 
when  the  soldier,  Ferrando,  was  seen  to  run  quickly 
towards  the  count,  who  was  walking  moodily  amidst  the 
troopers. 

"  One  hath  seized  a  gipsey  woman,  general.  She  is  a 
spy,  perhaps." 

"  Let  her  be  brought  hither,"  said  the  count,  and  look- 
ing up  as  the  sound  of  a  tramping,  mixed  with  smother- 
ing cries,  reached  his  ears,  he  saw  a  middle-aged,  stern- 
looking  gipsey-woman  being  dragged  towards  him  by 
half-a-dozen  thick-bearded  men.  She  showed  no  fear. 

"  Wherefore  do  ye  thus  treat  me  ?  What  evil  have  I 
done  ye  ?  " 

"  Come  hither,  woman.     Answer  me  truly." 

"  That  shall  be  as  thy  questions  are." 

«  Whither  goest  thou  ?  " 

"  Whither  the  gipsies  ever  go.  To  the  north  or  to  the 
south,  sometimes  westward,  yet  ever  gladly  to  the  east." 

«  What  wouldst  thou  ?  " 

"My  son  —  I  only  crave  my  dear,  dear  son.  He  hath 
left  me,  and  I  seek  him.  Tfcou  tremblest  —  perchance 
thou  hast  lost  a  mother." 

"I  seem  to  know  thy  features.  When  my  younger 
brother  was  stolen,  the  woman  who  did  carry  him  was 
like  thee." 

The  noble  seemed  to  be  thinking  aloud,  rather  than 
addressing  the  gipsey.  "  Fifteen  years  —  fifteen  long  years 
since  I  lost  my  younger  brother." 


IL   TKOVATORE.  22ft 

« Thou  art,  then,  the  Count  di  Luna? " 

She  saw  she  had  spoken  hastily,  as  soon  as  she  had 
uttered  the  words,  so  she  prepared  to  fence  with  them. 

"  How  knowest  thou  that?" 

"  They  say  the  gipsies  know  all  things,  master.  But  let 
me  go  ;  I  may  trace  him  for  thee." 

Suddenly  the  old  soldier,  Ferrando,  cried  out,  as  he 
peered  towards  the  gipsey,  "By  our  Lady,  'tis  she  her- 
self! " 

«  She !  who  ?  "  cried  the  count. 

"May  I  never  be  absolved,  general,  if 'tis  not  the  gipsey 
•who  stole  your  brother!  Did  I  not  see  her  carrying  the 
child  away,  hid  in  her  rags  ?  Aye,  marry,  did  I.  Did  I 
not  tremble  when  I  saw  her  but  just  now,  as  though  I 
knew  her?  Aye,  marry,  twice  did  I." 

"  She  trembles ;  her  lips  betray  her,"  said  the  count. 
"  Bind  her  —  till  the  cords  cut  deep  into  her  flesh.  Ah ! 
scream  —  scream  ;  there  is  no  help." 

"  Help,  Maurico ! "  cried  the  gipsey,  in  her  agony. 
"  Help,  my  son!  help,  my  Maurico  ! " 

"  His  mother  —  ins  mother !  "  said  the  count.  And 
running  to  her,  he  raised  his  hand,  as  though  he  would 
strike  her.  But  he  had  not  yet  fallen  so  low  as  that. 

She  looked  at  him  fearlessly.  "  I  defy  thee!  Thou  — 
the  base  son  of  a  base  father.  Frown  —  hope !  —  hate, 
thou  monster.  Vengeance  shall  be  mine.  List  to  that,  I 
say  —  "  VENGEANCE  SHALL  BE  MINE  ! " 

He  turned  from  her  contemptuously.  She  to  talk  of 
vengeance  !  She  a  miserable,  bound  gipsey. 

He  to  his  splendid  tent  —  she  to  imprisonment ;  and 
yet  she  had  cried,  "  VENGEANCE  SHALL  BE  MINE." 


Turn  we  to  Castellor,  where  are  Maurico  and  Leonora. 

As  they  stood  near  the  balcony,  all  in  all  to  each  other, 
she  heard  the  distant  clash  of  arms.  "  Prythee,  wherefore 
that  sound?"  * 

u  Thou  art  so  brave  that  I  fear  not  to  tell  thee  all.  The 
Count  di  Luna  is  encamped  but  a  short  mile  away.  Be- 
fore the  night  is  gone  he  will  have  besieged  this  castle. 
Kay,  trouble  not  —  your  courage  and  our  swords  will  bo 
10* 


228  TALES  FROM   THE 

victorious.  It  is,  I  know,  a  weary  prelude  to  our  marriage, 
clearest.  Of  victory  I  am  sure  —  yet  should  I  fall  —  tny 
last  thought  will  be  of  thee  —  only  of  thee  —  Hark  !  — 
they  await  us  in  the  chapel." 

As  he  spoke,  the  chanting  in  the  neighboring  chapel 
reached  their  ears,  and  each  knew  that  the  priest  was 
waiting  to  join  their  hands. 

They  were  moving  towards  the  holy  place  when  a 
soldier  ran  quickly  in,  saying  he  had  woeful  news. 

The  gipsey  Azucena  —  was  taken. 

"  Azucena ! " 

" They  say  —  she  will  be  burnt!" 

"  Ah  !  the  air  grows  hot  and  dark  about  me." 

The  lady  Leonora  put  her  hand  to  the  troubadour's 
brow,  but  he  put  it  aside  and  cried — "My  mother — they 
would  slay  my  mother." 

"  Thy  mother ! " 

Then  she  bade  him  take  arms.  No  fear  had  she  now. 
Victory  must  be  with  him  who  fought  to  save  a  mother ! 
"  Onward ! "  she  cried.  She  buckled  on  his  sword,  and 
Was  the  first  to  cry,  "  farewell."  Her  last  words  were 
"  love  "  and  M  victory ! " 


PART  IV.  —  VENGEANCE. 

MIGHT  is  not  always  for  the  just.  Were  it  so  always, 
where  would  be  the  honor  of  virtue  ? 

Maurico  was  conquered,  and  the  castle  fell  into  the 
hands  of  his  enemy  the  Count  Di  Luna.  The  minstrel 
languished  in  prison,  with  but  one  consolation  in  this  life 
—  the  presence  of  his  mother.  They  were  imprisoned 
together,  that  to  their  miseries  might  be  added  the  pain 
of  a  last  separation. 

Upon  the  fall  of  the  castle,  the  Lady  Leonora  took  flight, 
hoping  against  hope.  B^Jt  when  she  heard  he  was  con- 
demned to  death,  she  came  weeping  to  the  foot  of  the 
castle,  and  leant  her  face  against  its  wall. 

With  her  came  the  faithful  soldier,  who  had  ever  been 
at  Maurico's  right  hand — who  had  told  him  of  his  moth- 
er's capture,  and  who  had  escaped  from  the  battle  at  the 


IL   TKOVATORE.  227 

last  moment,  when  he  saw  his  master  taken  prisoner,  and 
all  hope  had  fled. 

She  bade  her  faithful  escort  leave  her,  and  then  hope 
whispered  that  perchance  she  could  save  him.  And  when 
she  trembled  she  looked  at  a  ring  she  wore,  and  found 
new  courage. 

Swelling  on  the  night  air  came  the  dirge  of  the  monks 
within  the  castle  — 

"  Miserere  for  him  whose  death  is  nigh  ; 

Who  from  life  and  its  joys  must  be  quickly  hurled  ; 
Miserere  for  one  who,  a  moment  more, 
Must  bid  farewell  to  this  dreary  world." 

The  solemn  words  made  her  tremble  and  look  for  a 
moment  with  fear  upon  the  ring  she  wore ;  but  the  next 
instant  she  started  forward  with  horror,  for  she  heard  his 
voice  — 

"  Ah  —  death  itself  is  slow 
When  death  itself  i   wooed  — 
When  death  itself  is  peace. 
Leonora  —  fare-thee-well  !  " 

"  Great  Heaven !  —  can  I  believe  my  senses  ?  " 
Again  the  solemn  voices  of  the  monks  arose  — 

"  Miserere  for  him  whose  death  is  nigh  ; 

Who  from  life  find  its  joys  must  be  quickly  hurled  ; 
Miserere  for  one  who,  a  moment  more, 
Must  bid  farewell  to  this  dreary  world." 

Again  his  voice  arose ;  his  last  words  for  her  — 

"  Leonora  —  Leonora,  a  last  farewell." 

And  again  she  looked  on  the  ring  as  she  thought,  "  her 
love  was  as  great  as  his." 

Then  suddenly  she  heard  footsteps,  and  she  shrank  into 
the  shadow  of  the  frowning  tower. 

The  count  passed  over  the  very  spot  from  which  she 
had  just  fled.  Then  he  turned  and  said  to  some  person 
unseen  by  Leonora  — 

"Thou  markest  my  will;  when  the  day  breaks  —  the 
scaffold  for  the  son  —  the  pile  for  the  mother." 

Cruel,  implacable  as  he  was,  he  even  blushed  in  the 
dark  night  as  ^conscience  whispered  £q  him  that  this  scaf- 


228  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

fold  and  this  pile  were  but  a  poor  return  for  his  life,  twice 
given  him.  But  he  had  gone  too  far  to  recede  ;  and,  with 
a  curse,  he  cried,  "'Twas  fatality,  and  Leonora."  Then 
he  asked  himself  where  she  was  —  where  she  had  hidden 
herself,  and,  in  an  agony  of  hot,  unrestrained  passion,  he 
cried  out,  "  Leonora,  Leonora,  where  art  thou  ?  " 

"  She  is  here ! " 

As  he  started  at  her  voice  she  came  forward,  pale  and 
trembling,  from  the  shadow. 

Asking  himself  how  she  could  have  reached  the  ter- 
race, after  an  effort  he  said,  "  What  wouldst  thou  ?  " 

"  Canst  thou  ask  me  ?    His  life." 

"  His  life !     Ask  me  for  mine  own  as  well." 

"  See,  I  kneel  to  thee." 

"  Thou  art  mad." 

"  Nay,  see  how  humble  I  am ;  look  on  me  —  at  thy  very 
feet." 

"  Look  in  ray  face ;  dost  thou  see  pity  there  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  look  upon  thy  face.  Pity  —  I  can  say  no 
more ;  —  pity !  Hath  he  not  twice  saved  thy  life  ?  Wilt 
thou  not  render  back  half  thy  debt?  Kill  me  if  thou 
wilt,  for  I  heard  thee  say  'twas  by  me  thou  art  what  thou 
art.  Kill  me,  yet  spare  him." 

"  As  thou  speakest,  thou  dost  but  ensure  his  fate.  I 
would  I  could  make  him  suffer  a  hundred  deaths.  As 
ardently  thou  lovest  so  fiercely  do  I  hate.  Let  go  your 
hold.  Nothing  can  purchase  his  life." 

"  No  price  ?  " 

"  No  price." 

"  Yes,  there  is  one,  and  I  do  offer  it  to  thee  —  myself." 

«  What  hast  thou  said  ?  " 

"What  I  do  mean  —  myself." 

« I  dream." 

"  Nay,  open  his  prison-dqor,  and  I  am  thine." 

"  Wilt  thou  swear  it  ?  " 

"  By  my  dead  mothei-'s  name ! " 

"  Enough  —  he  is  free." 

He  strode  quickly  to  the  door  of  the  tower,  and  spoke 
rapidly  to  the  goaler  within  it ;  but  she  had  had  time  to 
offer  herself  a  sacrifice  to  her  honest  love.  She  took  the 
ring  from  off  her  finger,  opened  a  little  receptacle  in  it, 


IL   TKOVATOEE.  229 

removed  from  it  a  small  grey  pellet,  and  swallowed  it. 
"  Thou  shalt  have  a  dead  bride,"  she  whispered.  When 
he  again  turned  towards  her,  her  hands  were  pressed  to 
her  sides. 

"  Saved,  saved,"  she  cried  to  herself,  as  the  count  — 
smiling  now  for  the  first  time  fora  weary  while  —  took 
her  right  hand  and  courteously  led  her  to  the  grand  hall 
of  the  castle. 


Enter  the  hopeless  prison,  in  which  the  gipsey  and  the 
troubadour  were  trying  to  console  each  other  as  each 
•weary  moment  rolled  away. 

She  was  lying  on  the  bare  ground ;  he  sitting  at  her 
feet,  his  hands  crossed,  and  smiling  as  he  looked  upon  her. 

"Dost  thou  sleep,  dear  mother?" 

"  There  is  no  time  for  sleep,  my  son." 

"  Thou  tremblest  with  cold." 

"  This  is  a  tomb.    I  would  we  could  escape." 

«  Escape ! " 

"  Yet,  fear  not,  son ;  they  cannot  torture  me." 

"  No ;  for  art  thou  not  a  woman  ?  " 

"  Oh,  they  would  not  fear  to  torture  a  woman.  But 
look  on  my  face,  canst  thou  not  read  death  there  ?  Nay, 
cry  not,  '  mother,'  as  thou  weepest.  They  shall  come  to 
bite  their  lips  with  anger ;  for  they  will  find  me  dead." 

Then,  as  he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  she  was  seized 
with  unconquerable  fear.  "They  come  —  they  come. 
Save  me  —  save  thy  mother.  I  am  indeed,  indeed  thy 
mother." 

"  No  one  cometh ;  all  is  quiet." 

"  Fire !  death  by  fire !  I  am  afraid  —  I  am  afraid.  I 
see  her  now  —  my  mother.  They  dragged  her  and  bound 
her  to  the  stake.  There !  there !  See,  the  flames  have 
caught  her  hair;  how  it  shrivels  up  !  And  her  eyes — • 
ah  !  she  can  see  me  no  longer.  Help  !  help !  save  me !  " 

And  she  fell  back  senseless  upon  the  hard  earth. 

"  Mother,  if  thou  dost  love  me  still  —  if  thou  wilt  hear 
thy  son's  prayers,  be  brave  and  calm." 

As  he  spoke,  she  came  again  to  a  knowledge  of  her 
fate. 


230  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

"  I  am  worn  and  weak ;  or  thou  shoultlst  not  bid  me 
be  calm  and  brave.  I  am  —  very — worn — and  —  weak." 

And  she  fell  peacefully  to  sleep,  as  in  her  native  moun- 
tains ;  free  as  the  wind,  and  surrounded  by  her  tribe. 

Then  he  knelt  by  her  side,  hardly  daring  to  breathe,  for 
fear  of  waking  her. 

No  fear  of  awaking  her ;  for  she  is  aweary,  and  trill 
sleep.  They  shall  eome  and  bear  him  away  from  thee, 
and  still  thou  shalt  sleep  on  and  peacefully ;  he  shall  bid 
thee  his  last  farewell,  and  still  thou  shalt  sleep  unheed- 
ingly. 

Suddenly  he  started,  as  a  light  fell  upon  the  prison 
walls.  He  looked  upon  his  sleeping  mother,  and  thought 
it  was  her  funeral  pyre.  But  as  he  turned,  he  saw  the 
light  came  from  the  door,  upon  the  threshold  of  which 
stood  the  queen  of  mercy  —  his  dear  Leonora. 

She  ran  to  him,  and  nestled  on  his  breast.  Then  she 
cried,  "  Thou  shalt  not  die,  for  I  have  saved  thee." 

"  Thou  hast  saved  me  !  how?" 

"  Nay,"  and  she  hid  her  face,  and  pointed  to  the  door. 

"  And  thou  —  thou  comest  also." 

"  My  life  —  my  hope  —  I  must  stay  here." 

"Stay  here!"' 

"I  pray  thee  go,  go." 

"Where  thou  goest  I  will  also  go;  and  where  thou 
stayest,  I  will  stay." 

u  But  if  thou  stayest  thou  diest." 

"  Without  thee  what  is  life  ?  Why  do  thy  eyes  turn 
from  me ;  what  is  the  price  thou  hast  paid  for  my  liber- 
ty?" 

"  No  price  is  high  for  a  dear  human  life.  There  is  yet 
time.  For  my  sake,  go ! " 

"  But  he  for  whom  that  life  is  bought  may  cast  the  gift 
from  him  as  I  do,  and  as  I  also  cast  thee  away." 

"Ah,  Maurico  —  'tis  not  the  hour  to  hate.  Peace  and 
good-will,  peace  and  good-will."  She  turned  deadly 
pale,  and  rocked  to  and  fro  in  agony. 

His  arms  were  about  her  in  a  moment.  "  My  transient 
hate  —  my  fears,  were  but  excess  of  love." 

"  Speak  on,  speak  on,  death  vainly  strives  against  the 
warmth  of  love.  I  feel  for  thee?  Speak  on,  oh,  my 


1L  TROVATORE.  231 

Maurico.  But  a  little,  and  envious  death  shall  have  his 
will." 

"  Leonora  —  Leonora,  thou  art  dying !  " 

"  Ah  —  yes,  she  goes  to  be  thy  herald.  Unrelenting  is 
the  poison.  If  'twill  let  me  stay  near  thee  but  for  a  little, 
little  while.  Ah,  place  my  cold  hand  against  thy  tremb- 
ling lips,  thou  knowest  "now  my  wealth  of  love  for  thee. 
I  did  mean  to  save  thee  at  my  life's  expense  ;  this  was  the 
price.  No  more,  no  less."  4 

"  And  ./fell  back  from  thee  —  turned  from  thee.  Mine 
eyes  have  fallen  from  my  face.  Leonora  —  look  up,  look 
up." 

"  I  am  too  weak.  Keep  your  hands  about  me.  So  let 
me  die !  Ah,  'tis  well  as  it  it  is." 

At  this  moment  the  count  came  to  the  door  to  claim  his 
bride. 

"  Good-bye  —  oh,  good-bye  1 "  and  she  sank  exhausted 
in  his  arms. 

Even  this  scene  did  not  soften  Di  Luna.  No  reverence 
had  he  for  the  poor  dead  lady  —  no  reverence  had  he  for 
the  maddened  lover,  straining  his  eyes  upon  the  dear 
one's  face.  The  guards,  who  waited  without,  came  in, 
and  tore  them  asunder. 

"  Mother,"  he  cried,  "  mother." 

But  she  slept  on  unheedingly.  Slept  on  while  they 
bore  her  son  away  to  death. 

Again,  as  he  was  wrenched  across  the  threshold,  he 
cried,  "Mother/'  And  now,  she  trembled  in  her  sleep. 

Again,  and  again,  she  trembled.  Then  with  a  shudder 
she  awoke.  She  looked  round  quickly,  and  clasped  her 
hands  about  her  breast,  as  she  no  longer  saw  her  son. 
Then  her  eyes  rested  on  the  count.  With  a  bound  she 
was  by  his  side.  "Thou  hast  stolen  him  —  thou  hast 
stolen  while  I  slept." 

He  stood  immovable,  and  uttered  not  a  word. 

"  Mercy  —  stay  the  axe  —  I  will  save  him  —  I  will  save 
him."  And  she  clung,  shrieking,  about  his  feet. 

"  Save  him  —  nought  can  save  him  —  see  there." 

He  dragged  her  to  the  window,  and  she  looked  wildly 
forth. 

"  Dead  —  dead  —  dead  I  " 


232  TALES   FKOM   THE   OPERAS. 

Then  she  turned  from  the  window  a  changed  woman. 
No  tears.  No  horror.  Smiling  even  a  grim  smile. 

The  noble  stepped  back  in  wonder.  Then  he  thought 
that  she  was  mad.  But  no. 

Proud  —  erect  —  she  stood  before  him. 

"Have  I  not  said  —  'Vengeance  shall  be  mine'  —  in 
thy  tent,  where  thou  didst  cut  my  flesh  with  cords.  Ven- 
geance is  mine.  Thou  look'st  towards  the  window.  Gaz- 
ing through  it  —  I  say  —  Vengeance  is  mine.  He  is  dead 

—  thou  sayest  he  is  dead.     Hear!  —  thou  knowest  me  to 
be   the   gipsey  who  robbed  thy  father  of  thy  younger 
brother.     Ah  well,  I  am  indeed  she — and  that  brother, — 
rejoice  in  the  act, — and  that  brother — look  again  through 
the  window  —  mark  that  body.     THOU  HAST  SLAIN  THY 
BROTHER.      Shrink  —  shrink  !  —  VENGEANCE    is    MINE. 
Hadst  thou  but  have  let  him  wake  me  that  he  might 
say  farewell,  I  should  have  pitied  thee  and  saved  him  — 
but  thou  didst  steal  him  from  me  while  I  slept.     Dead ! 

—  he  will  carry  thy  murderous  name  with  him.     Have  I 
not  said,  '  VENGEANCE  SHALL  BE  MINE  ? ' " 

And  then  her  troubles  were  over,  and  the  last  she  saw 
on  earth  was  the  bleeding  body  of  him  she  called,  and 
whom  she  loved,  as  a  son. 

While  he,  the  triumphant  count,  stood  there  alone. 

Alone.     With  remembrance.    With  remorse. 


EKNANL     (VERDI.) 


PART  I.  —  THE  BANDIT. 

WHO  are  these  houseless  men,  lying  about  amongst 
jagged  rocks,  laughing  gaily,  card-playing  and  drinking 
—  the  setting  sun  lighting  up  the  place  with  a  red  glare, 
and  bathing  their  brown  faces  crimson  ? 

The  sun  writes  the  truth  upon  their  faces ;  they  are 
men  of  blood  —  lawless,  houseless  plunderers;  singing, 
laughing,  card-playing  —  waiting  for  the  night,  and  for 
their  captain,  that  they  may  begin  their  work. 

They  keep  a  sharp  look-out  about  them  though,  and  at 
last,  start  to  their  feet  with  a  great  noise,  as  a  young 
handsome  man  comes  suddenly  in. 

He  seems  to  have  nothing  in  common  with  these  men, 
for  he  is  elegantly  dressed,  and  looks  every  inch  a  cava- 
lier. His  face  is  not  ferocious ;  and  yet  —  yes,  they  have 
saluted  him  as  captain,  and  he  waves  his  hat  in  courteous 
reply. 

Not  a  thief  by  birth !  O  no !  this  man  really  is  John 
of  Arragon,  the  son  and  heir  of  the  Duke  of  Segovia  and 
Cordova,  killed  to  please  the  will  of  King  Carlos  of  Cas- 
tille.  The  son  narrowly  escaped  the  same  fate,  but  for- 
tune favored  him.  He  reached  the  Sierras,  which,  like  all 
mountains,  offered  the  fugitive  safe  shelter.  Hundreds  upon 
hundreds  flocked  to  his  standard,  and  John  of  Arragon 
changed  his  name  to  "Ernani."  But  he  dwelt  not  so  far 
away  from  his  old  life,  as  not  to  be  able  to  see  the  Moorish 
castle  of  Don  Ruy  Gomez  di  Silva.  Nor  was  it  for  the 
sake  of  Don  Ruy  he  kept  the  castle  ever  in  view.  The 
don  had  a  ward,  Elvira,  who  had  held  out  a  hand  to  save 
Ernani  when  the  blood-king  was  tracking  him ;  and  for 
this  generous  act  she  had  gained  his  love,  giving,  how- 
ever, her  own  in  exchange. 


234  TALES   FEOM   THE   OPERAS. 

The  face  of  the  chief  is  sad.  Would  that  his  men 
could  bear  his  grief  for  him,  and  they  would  willingly 
stand  between  him  and  death. 

"Thank  you,  brothers — thank  you,"  replied  the  chief, 
as  he  leapt  down  amongst  them  ;  "  but  my  woe  is  so 
deep  that  even  your  cheering  voices  cannot  drive  it 
away." 

u  The  chief,  then,  is  in  love  —  " 

"  And  likely  to  lose  his  love,  brothers,  if  you  will  not 
help  him." 

"  Help  !  Yes  —  yes  —  yes." 

"  See  you  that  castle  there,  below  iis,  with  the  red  sun 
full  on  it.  She  lives  there  —  she  lives  there  !  If  you  love 
your  chief,  you  will  help  him  to  bring  her  here  —  here  to 
the  mountains." 

"  Yes  —  yes  —  yes !  "  replied  a  hundred  voices. 

"She  would  follow  me  anywhere;  she  will  love  the 
mountains  for  my  sake.  You  will  help  me ! " 

"  Yes  —  yes  —  yes." 

"Then  let  the  night  be  our  friend;  when  darkness 
has  come  we  will  storm  the  castle,  and  then  she  is 
amongst  us." 

"Hurrah!  hurrah!  hurrah!" 

And  while  the  noble  chief  was  waiting  for  nightfall, 
the  lady  whom  he  loved  was  looking  from  a  window  of 
the  old  castle  towards  the  mountains,  amongst  which  she 
knew  Ernani  dwelt. 

A  real  Spanish  lady  was  Elvira,  as  could  be  seen,  had 
anybody  been  able  to  spy  her  at  the  window.  But, 
alas !  no  one  could,  for  Don  Ruy,  her  guardian,  hid  her 
as  a  jewel  which  he  feared  might  be  stolen.  He  was 
seventy,  she  was  seventeen ;  his  hair  was  grey,  hers  was 
black,  and  yet  he  had  determined  that  she  should 
marry  him. 

As  she  sat  at  the  window,  watching  the  sun  go  down, 
she  was  at  least  at  peace,  for  the  grandee  was  away  from 
the  castle.  And  so  she  sat  pensive,  and  dreaming  of 
Ernani,  perhaps,  hoping  he  would  come  and  carry  her  off. 
At  last  it  was  night  time,  and  still  the  don  had  not  re- 
turned. 

Suddenly  the  door  of  the  quiet  room  opened,  and  a  pro- 


ERNANI.  235 

cession  entered ;  gay  in  itself,  but  of  ominous  import  to 
the  lady  at  the  window  —  a  string  of  young  maidens  bear- 
ing rich  gifts,  marriage  gifts ;  for,  truth  to  tell,  the  old 
don  had  resolved  that  his  marriage  with  Elvira  should 
take  place  on  the  following  day.  Listen  what  they  say 
to  her. 

"  How  many  Spanish  maidens  envy  thee,  fair  lady 
Thou  wilt  be  the  highest  lady  in  all  the  land.  These 
gifts  alone  are  a  mine  of  wealth.  To-morrow  thou  wilt 
be  a  bride." 

"  I  thank  you ;  but  the  dazzle  of  diamonds  will  not 
lighten  hate  into  love."  And  she  again  thought,  "  I  would 
Ernani  were  here,  and  that  he  would  fly  with  me." 

Hardly  had  they,  the  present  bearers,  left  the  room, 
than  she  turned  quickly  at  the  sound  of  a  cautious 
footstep — she  thought  it  was  that  of  Ernani.  But  no; 
another  had  learnt,  the  secret  entrance  her  bandit  lover 
used.  Another,  who  had  watched  and  seen  Ernani  enter. 
Not  a  mean  man  this.  A  king  —  a  KING  !  Don  Carlos, 
King  of  Castille.  She  saw  her  error,  shrunk  back,  and 
cried  out :  — 

"  Sire,  you  here,  at  this  hour !  " 

"  I  love  thee,  lady,  at  all  hours." 

"  Ah,  no  —  sire." 

"Nay,  lady,  a  king  is  never  told  he  lies." 

"  I  pray  you,  leave  me." 

"  I  will  leave  with  thee,  lady." 

"With  me!" 

"  Ah,  if  I  were  Ernani  thou  wouldst  not  start  thus. 
Come,  thou  canst  not  know  the  wealth  of  love  I  have  for 
thee." 

"  And  my  honor,  sire  ?  " 

"  Thou  shalt  be  honored  by  all  the  court." 

"  And  by  myself,  think  you  ! " 

"  Thou  wouldst  sooner  be  honored  by  Ernani's  out-laws 
—  thou  lovest  the  robber." 

"  Sire,  each  heart  has  its  own  secret." 

"  And  I,  have  not  I  mine  ?  Ah,  Elvira,  from  the  mo- 
ment I  first  saw  thee  I  have  loved  thee.  I  love  thee  for 
thyself,  as  I  would  have  thee,  lady,  e'en  love  me.  But  — 
but  if  a  crown  will  earn  me  smiles  from  thee,  I  offer  you 
the  half  of  that  I  wear." 


V 

230  TALES  FBOM  THE  OPERAS. 

"  With  thy  crown  thy  love  is  too  high  for  me,  without 
it,  '  tis  too  low." 

"Thou  shall  fall." 

"  A  king  —  never  forget  you  are  a  king ! " 

"  I  forget  I  am  a  king  when  I  am  at  your  feet." 

He  ran  towards  her,  as  her  eyes  flashed  defiance  upon 
him  ;  but  the  next  moment  he  drew  back,  for  she  had 
snatched  a  jewelled  dagger  from  his  girdle. 

"  Stand  back ! " 

"  You  see  I  do  stand  back,  fair  lady.  But  there  are 
more  hands  here  than  mine  to  pluck  the  dagger  from 
your  grasp." 

Suddenly  he  perceived  a  great  joy  flush  her  fair  cheeks. 
At  the  same  instant  he  heard  a  footstep  behind  him,  and 
turning  round,  he  saw  a  man,  a  handsome,  daring-looking 
man,  whom  he  was  sure,  seeing  the  lady's  joy,  was  none 
other  than  Eniani,  looking  on  him  defiantly,  with  hate 
and  anger!  Ernani,  who  had  entered  the  castle  by  a  se- 
cret door  —  who  was  there  to  bear  away  the  lady  —  who 
had  come  to  save  her  from  yet  further  misery. 

"  Thou  art  Ernani  —  I  know  it  by  the  hate  I  feel  spark- 
ling in  my  eyes.  Hate !  Does  the  eagle  hate  the  worm  ? 
No,  he  despises  it.  Rejoice  —  scourge  of  a  peaceful 
country !  Let  thy  meanness  comfort  thee.  Wert  thou 
greater,  I  would  raise  my  hand  to  thy  destruction.  I 
have  but  to  call,  and  thou  art  lost." 

"  Thou  knowest  me  and  fearest  me.  I  am  so  mean  that 
thou  hast  robbed  me  of  my  fame ;  —  so  mean,  that  thou 
hast  taken  from  me  my  wealth ;  —  so  contemptible,  that 
thou  hast  slain  my  father !  And  now  thou  would'st  rob 
me  of  my  bride.  What  difference  is  there  between  us  ? 
Thou,  noblest,  with  a  crown  on  thy  head  and  without  risk 
of  life  —  I  risk  my  life  to  rob  where  I  have  been  robbed. 
What  difference  is  there  between  us  ?  Cowardice  !  Now 
—  let  us  be  equal.  Defend  thyself." 

"  Hark !  some  one  is  approaching,"  cried  Elvira,  in  an 
agony  of  fear  —  "  forget  your  quarrel,  at  least  for  a  little 
while, —  if  you  are  found  here  I  am  lost.  So,  please  you, 
forget  your  hates,  and  leave  me." 

Still,  the  two  men  moved  not  —  still  the  footsteps  near- 
er drew. 


237 

"  If  you  love  me,  both  of  you  —  either  of  you  —  leave 
me  —  leave  this  place  !  Too  late  —  too  late ! " 

For  at  this  moment  the  door  was  thrown  open,  and  on 
the  threshold  stood  the  master  of  the  castle  —  the  Don 
Ruy  —  his  attendants  behind  him  —  witnesses  to  his  dis- 
honoi*. 

"  Do  I  breathe  ?  —  here,  in  the  sanctity  of  my  house  — 
to  find  two  men  quarreling  —  as  though  disputing  for 
some  poor  booty ! " 

He  was  a  grand  old  gentleman,  with  hair  as  white  as 
honor.  But  his  age  had  not  brought  him  humility.  He 
was  as  proud  as  he  was  grand,  and  as  merciless  as  he  wan 
proud.  Turning  to  his  court  —  for  this  grandee  retained 
a  court  —  he  continued:  "You,  Senors,  witness  this  fall 
of  mine!  This  woman  whom  I  loved,  but  till  now  I 
thought  as  pure  as  the  moonlight  streaming  on  her 
through  the  window.  As  for  these  men  —  my  hands  are 
weak,  but  one  can  bear  a  sword — the  other  a  shield. 
Yet  not  here  within  my  house  shall  blood  be  spilt.  Go, 
pass  be  fere  me." 

The  last  few  words  were  addressed  to  the  king  and 
Ernani,  and  then  for  the  first  time  he  looked  upon  them 
—  but  the  light  was  too  feeble  for  him  to  recognize  even 
one  of  them. 

"Gently  —  gently,"  said  one  of  these  two.  But  the 
don  cried  out  haughtily.  "None  but  myself  had  right 
to  speak." 

Suddenly,  high  and  loud  in  the  air,  sounded  a  herald's 
trumpet. 

And,  within  a  moment  or  so,  it  was  whispered  among 
the  crowd,  still  without  the  door,  that  it  was  a  king's 
messenger. 

A  lane  was  made  for  him  by  Don  Ruy — who  turned 
to  the  herald,  imagining  that  he  came  to  him.  Following 
the  herald  came  torch-bearers. 

On  came  the  herald.  He  did  not  salute  the  master  of 
the  castle — he  did  not  even  look  at  him.  On  past  him, 
past  one  of  the  men  found  in  the  lady's  room  —  past  the 
lady  even  —  up  to  the  second  intruder,  before  whom  he 
knelt. 

"THE  KING,"  cried   many,  as  the  herald  knelt,  and 


238  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

above  him  stood,  now  in  the  full  light  of  the  torches,  the 
brave  man  who  bore  a  dagger  sheath,  but  not  a  dagger. 

Then  said  the  king,  "Don  Ruy,  I  came  to  consult  thy 
friendship  for  me." 

See  !  The  proud  Don  Ruy  has  stooped  his  head  ;  then 
he  steps  forward,  and  humbly  welcomes  to  his  house  "  the 
king." 

As  they  crowd  about  the  king  —  as  the  latter  receives 
their  homage  —  the  robber  Ernani  and  the  lady  were  for- 
gotten, and  they  stood  apart,  whispering  — 

"  Until  the  sun  sinketh  again  in  the  deep' 

Resist  the  proud  tyrant,  nor  yield  to  dismay  ; 
For  Ernani  unbroken  thy  precious  faith  keep, 
And  to-morrow  from  peril  I'll  bear  thee  away." 


"  Thou  knowest  I'm  thine  —  know  also  this  steel 

Can  save  me  from  tyrants  —  nor  do  I  repine  ; 
In  wretchedness  even  'tis  solace  to  feel 

That  my  heart  —  that  my  faith,  will  for  ever  be  thine." 

See,  now,  the  proud  noble  stoops  to  kneel  before  the 
outraged  king,  and  entreats  his  pardon.  And,  graciously, 
the  king  accords  it. 

Hark !  the  king  demands  a  safe  pass  for  Ernani.  He 
still  thinks  the  eagle  should  not  injure  the  worm.  See, 
the  bandit  passes  away,  out  to  freedom.  The  king  is  gra- 
cious, the  don  trembles,  and  the  Lady  Elvira  is  presented 
to  the  king  in  due  form  and  courtesy. 


PART  II. — THE  GUEST. 

WITH  the  next  day's  sun  came  Elvira's  marriage  day. 
No  hope  of  flight  —  fate  was  against  her,  and  so  her  envi- 
ous women  dress  her  for  the  sacrifice. 

The  great  hall  of  the  castle  is  filling  with  lords  and 
ladies,  retainers  and  vassals.  There  is  a  sudden  stir  — 
'tis  the  entrance  of  the  duke,  dressed  grandly,  and  wear- 
ing all  his  orders.  He  walks  gravely  to  his  grandee's 
chair,  and  sits  down  as  the  crowd  do  homage. 


ERNAXI.  239 

In  those  days  —  four  hundred  years  ago  —  it  was  the 
custom  to  give  shelter  to  any  pilgrim  who  should  demand 
it.  Hence  scarcely  a  day  passed  without  "the  castle" 
containing  many  guests  of  this  sort. 

The  don  had  hardly  sat  down  when  a  servant  ap- 
proached and  said  that  a  pilgrim  was  at  the  gate,  craving 
hospitality. 

Gravely  and  readily  was  given  the  order  to  let  the  pil- 
grim enter.  The  next  moment  a  tall,  upright  man,  dress- 
ed in  the  pilgrim's  loose  sombre  dress,  came  forward  and 
up  to  the  don  as  he  sat  in  state. 

"  I  greet  thee,  noble  knight." 

"  Good  pilgrim,  be  at  ease.  ISTor  whence  thou  comest, 
nor  who  thou  art,  we  do  not  ask.  Be  welcome  for  this 
day  and  night.  My  hospitality  I  promise  thee." 

"  The  deepest  thanks  I  have  are  thine  !  " 

"  We  do  not  ask  for  thanks  —  the  guest  is  as  the  lord. 
But  stand  aside,  good  pilgrim."  And  the  don  rose  and 
walked  quickly  to  the  door  to  meet  a  lady  dressed  in 
bridal  garments. 

"  My  bride,"  he  murmured. 

"His  bride,"  said  the  pilgrim,  throwing  his  cowl  from 
his  head  a  little,  so  that  those  who  had  chosen  to  look 
might  have  seen  a  handsome,  brave  face  within  it.  "  His 
bride." 

"Senor  —  as  well  as  others,  a  poor  pilgrim  should  offer 
thee  a  marriage  gift  —  I  offer  one  of  price  —  my  head. 
Let  no  one  fear  —  I  will  no  resistance  offer  —  I  am  Er- 
nani ! " 

"  He  li ves  —  he  lives,"  said  the  bride  to  herself. 

The  don's  face  contracted  angrily  as  he  saw  the  pilgrim 
standing  —  his  gown  flung  off — fearless  among  them. 

"Deliver  me  to  the  king  —  a  price  is  on  my  head. 
Hark !  they  have  tracked  me  even  here.  I  hear  the 
horsemen  near  the  castle  gate.  Deliver  me,  and  thou 
shalt  gain  a  high  sum  for  my  head ! n 

In  those  old  times  a  brutal  ferocity  was  atoned  for  by 
a  kind  of  honor  of  which,  in  these  degenerate  days,  we 
have  but  slight  idea.  Above  all,  the  promise  of  hospitality 
was  sacred,  and  to  keep  it  inviolate  the  accorder  would 
run  all  risk  and  dangers.  When  life  was  so  unhesitatingly 


240  TALES  FROM  THE  OPEKAS. 

taken,  perhaps  this  sacredness  of  hospitality  was*the  only 
means  whereby  men  lived  in  society.  But  for  it  each 
man  would  have  kept  to  his  own  home  as  a  wild  beast 
does  to  its  lair,  and  no  more  have  trusted  himself  in  his 
neighbor's  stronghold  than  that  same  beast  would  besiege 
another's  den. 

Hence  the  don,  having  promised  to  give  hospitality  to 
the  pilgrim  without  conditions  —  awarding'  it  to  him  no 
matter  whence  he  came,  or  who  he  was,  he  was  bound  to 
save  this  guest  from  his  pursuers,  even  though  they  were 
the  royal  troops  themselves. 

So  far  this  man  whom  he  abhorred  —  whom  ho  recog- 
nized as  the  intruder  of  the  night  before  —  for  this  man 
the  very  marriage  was  stayed,  and  he,  the  grandee,  left 
his  hall  for  his  ramparts.  And  soon  there  was  heard  the 
clicking  of  the  lowering  poi'tcullis,  an<J  the  raising  of  the 
drawbridge. 

As  he  left  the  great  hall  the  gentlemen  followed  him  ; 
and  the  only  man  left  in  the  room  was  the  false  pilgrim, 
standing  in  the  midst  of  the  frightened  women. 

Their  chief,  the  Donna  Elvira,  motioned  them  away, 
and  soon  she  stood  alone  with  the  robber. 

"  Ernani  —  Ernani  —  they  told  me  thou  wert  dead  ! " 

"  And  thou  didst  believe  them." 

"Yet  I  hoped  —  I  would  have  hoped  even  to  the 
altar." 

"And  then  —  then  thou  wouldst  have  sworn  to  love 
Don  Ruy." 

For  all  answer  she  showed  him  the  dagger  she  had 
wrested  from  the  king.  So,  she  would  have  hoped  till 
living  death  were  forced  upon  her,  and  then  she  would 
have  welcomed  death  itself. 

"  The  king  —  the  king !  " 

Again  the  cry  was  heard,  "  The  king  was  at  the  gate." 
The  king  demanded  that  it  should  bow  to  him,  and  again 
the  clicking  sound  was  heard  as  the  bridge  was  lowered 
before  the  king. 

But  ere  the  king  reached  the  great  hall,  the  lady  and 
the  robber  had  left  it.  The  don  returning,  discovered 
them  together.  • 

Again,  despairingly,  the  robber  offered  his  life,  but  tho 


241 

don  was  inflexible  ;  hospitality  he  had  promised,  and  hos- 
pitality he  would  grant.  True,  the  very  necessity  of  this 
hospitality  would  nerve  his  hand  to  greater  vengeance 
when  the  time  came.  But  now  his  guest's  life  was  as  his 
own ;  so  the  trembling  Elvira  saw  the  don  open,  a  secret 
sliding  door,  and  her  lover  was  safe. 

"  Begone  to  thy  rooms,  Elvira  —  the  king  —  the  king." 

No  second  bidding  needed  she.  And  when  Carlos 
came  proudly  into  the  great  hall  he  found  there  only  the 
grandee,  humbly  bowing. 

"  Fair  cousin,  why  in  arms,  we  are  not  at  war?  You 
bow  —  enough.  Let  it  be  known  there  is  but  one  king  of 
Castille.  When  his  sword  is  in  its  sheath  all  swords  must 
sleep." 

"  Your  Majesty  can  never  think  a  Silva  dreams  re- 
bellion." 

"Prove  yourself  loyal.  The  chief  of  the  rebels  has 
sought  refuge  here  in  your  castle.  His  men  destroyed, 
he  seeks  to  save  himself  by  your  protection.  Deliver 
him!" 

"  If  the  king  will  hear  his  subject.  A  pilgrim  came 
and  entreated  hospitality,  which  I  promised.  The  loy- 
a  ty  I  bear  the  king  will  not  allow  me  to  betray  his 
subject." 

"Thou  wouldst  lose  thy  head,  fair  cousin." 

"  Rather  than  mine  honor." 

The  king  turned  and  gave  some  orders  to  the  gentle- 
men about  him.  Then  again  his  eyes  were  upon  the 
door  "  Thy  head  or  his,  my  lord?  w 

"Mine  own." 

Yet  a  little,  and  the  gentlemen  of  the  king's  suite  re- 
turned, saying  the  royal  troops  had  searched  the  castle 
through  and  could  not  find  the  rebel. 

«  Thy  head,  I  say." 

But  as  he  spoke,  the  king's  eyes  turned  from  the  grand- 
ee, and  rested  upon  the  Donna  Elvira,  coming  towarda 
him  with  hands  clasped,  and  white  open  lips. 

"  Mercy  —  mercy  —  king !  " 

"Mercy,  fair  lady!     Thou  art  mercy's  self,  and  even 
kings  must  here  obey.     But  thou  shalt  be  the  don's  best 
hostage  for  his  loyalty." 
11 


242  TALES   FROM   TIITC   OrEUA.8. 

"Nay!  my  king.  Is  there  no  other  hostage  for  a  loyal- 
ty yet  unshaken  ?  She  is  my  only  hope,  my  only  joy.  I 
have  loved  her  from  her  very  birth.  My  king,  thou  wilt 
—  thou  wilt  not  take  her  from  me  ?  " 

M  Then  Ernani.     One  or  the  other." 

"  Nay,  I  am  steadfast  in  my  loyalty.  Therefore  —  please 
you,  my  king  —  take  her  —  my  hope,  my  life." 

"  Come,  lady,"  said  the  king,  seizing  the  hand  of  the 
luckless  lady.  "  Come,  I'll  strew  thy  path  with  flowers. 
Time  shall  bring  thee  no  heavy  hours.  Rather  let  smiles 
be  where  now  are  tears  and  whitened  cheeks.  Come, 
come." 

So  with  his  prey  the  Christian  king  departed,  leaving 
the  old  lord  bent  and  wretched  with  grief. 

But  not  for  long  —  not  for  long.  Now,  his  eyes  spar- 
kled, for  hate  was  there.  His  head  was  erect  again,  and 
his  breath  came  and  went  in  short  angry  catches.  He 
ran  to  the  secret  door,  and  as  though  calling  to  a  dog,  he 
bade  the  robber  chief  come  forth. 

As  Ernani  stepped  into  the  room,  the  grandee  ran  to 
the  wall,  and  took  down  a  couple  of  swords. 

"  Now,  robber,  doubly  robber,  vengeance  is  mine." 

"  What !  will  a  grandee  fight  with  a  poor  bandit  ?  " 

"  At  least,  thou  wast  born  noble,  even  if  now  thou  art 
vile.  Follow  me ! " 

«  No,  no." 

"  What  —  has  all  nobility  left  thee?  " 

*  I  am  still  too  noble  to  fight  with  age,  Senor." 

"  See — is  my  hand  firm  ?  " 

M  Again,  thou  hast  saved  my  life  ! " 

«  That  I  might  take  it  from  thee." 

"  Ah,  well !     Kill  me,  thou  hast  the  right,  perhaps." 

M  Kill  thee."  And  the  old  lord  raised  his  sword  as 
though  a  rat  were  before  him. 

"  Kill,  kill.    Yet  hear  a  prayer  of  mine." 

tt  Prayers  are  for  heaven,  not  man." 

" '  Tis  a  prayer  to  man  —  to  thee." 

"  Speak  on." 

«  But  once  again,  but  once  again,  let  me  see  Elvira." 

**  If  thou  wouldst  see  her,  thou  must  travel.  The  king 
has  torn  her  from  me." 


ERNAOT.  243 

"  The  king,  the  KING  !     Old  man,  the  king  loves  Elvira." 

"Loves  —  loves  Elvira!  The  king  loves  Elvira!  Vas- 
sals, vassals,"  he  weakly  called  as  he  staggered  to  a  seat. 

"  Nay,  call  me  vassal,  and  the  strength  of  this  strong 
heart  and  arm  is  thine." 

"  Stand  from  me.  Aid  from  thee  —  from  thee !  Thou 
who  art  doomed  to  die." 

"  My  life  is  thine.  I  know  my  life  is  thine.  At  any 
time  my  life  is  thine.  But  let  me  live  to  hate  where  now 
thou  hatest  so  strongly." 

"  Thy  life  at  any  time  is  mine.  True.  Well,  wilt  thou 
promise  me  thy  life  at  any  time  I  ask  it  ?  " 

The  other  hesitated  for  a  moment.  Then  took  from 
his  side  his  hunting-horn,  and  placed  it  in  the  unwilling 
hands  of  the  old  lord. 

"  Take  thou  this  horn,  when  from  it  sounds  a  blast, 
'Twill  tell  Ernani  that  his  days  are  past." 

"Upon  what  dost  swear  that  oath?" 
"  The  memory  of  my  murdered  father." 
"So  be  it.    Let  heaven's  darkness  fall  on  thee  if  thou 
dost  break  thy  word." 


PAKT  III. —  THE  PARDON. 

CHARLES  the  Fifth  was  not  unforgiving,  not  even  in- 
clined to  be  harsh  ;  and  no  one  ever  disputed  his  bravery. 
When  he  was  intriguing  for  his  election  as  emperor  — 
the  election  which  made  him  the  great  emperor,  Charles 
the  Fifth  —  Castille  was  full  of  plots  to  oppose  his  plans, 
nay,  to  take  his  life  ;  and  at  the  head  of  these  conspira- 
cies was  Ernani  and  Don  Ruy. 

On  the  very  night  when  the  electors  were  to  assemble 
to  decide  on  the  choice  of  an  emperor,  the  king  heard 
that  this  most  formidable  band  of  conspirators,  formida- 
ble because  its  members  were  moved  by  personal  hate, 
were  to  meet  in  the  subterraneous  catacombs  of  Aquis- 
grana,  the  royal  open  burying-place. 

The  king  fearlessly  determined  to  be  present  at  this 
traitorous  assembly,  and  to  crush  it  at  its  work.  Soldiers 


244  TALES  FROM  THK  OPERAS. 

were  posted  about  the  cavern ;  the  king  himself  remained 
concealed  in  the  tomb  of  one  of  his  ancestors,  and  the 
hour  of  the  meeting  was  close  at  hand.  The  king  had 
given  orders  that  if  he  were  elected  emperor,  cannon 
should  roar  from  the  castle-walls,  and  that  thereupon  the 
lords  of  the  court  should  present  themselves  at  the  cav- 
ern, that  they  might  see  how  a  great  king  treated  rebels 
and  traitors.  Charles  also  commanded  that  the  Donna 
Elvira  should  be  conducted  to  the  gloomy  spot. 

As  the  conspirators  slowly  gathered  in  the  wide  central 
space  of  the  catacombs,  no  sounds  were  heard  but  those 
they  themselves  made. 

Creeping  —  creeping  guiltily,  they  came,  and  stood  in 
a  whispering  throng.  Then  came  the  casting  for  a  regi- 
cide :  he  on  whom  the  lot  fell  was  to  slay  the  king. 

There  was  a  little  rustling  of  papers,  and  then  one  slip 
was  taken  from  the  heap,  brought  quickly  to  the  light  of 
a  lantern,  and  the  name  upon  it  read. 

"  ERNANI  ! " 

"  My  father  —  my  father !    I  will  avenge  thee !  " 

"  Ernani,  thou  knowest  my  voice  ?  " 

"  Surely,  thou  art  Don  Ruy." 

"  I  am  Don  Ruy.  I  am  the  master  of  thy  life ;  yield 
me  the  privilege  you  hold." 

«  No,  no." 

"  Think !  thou  mayst  fail,  and  thou  wouldst  then  surely 
die ;  yield  me  the  task  ?  " 

"  No,  no.     And  mightest  not  thou  also  fail  ?  " 

"  See,  here  is  thy  horn  !  I  will  give  it  thee  back,  if  thou 
wilt  let  me  strike  this  guilty  man." 

"No." 

"  What !  can  I  not  kill  thee  by  a  note  on  this  same 
horn  ?  " 

"  I  care  not ;  chance  hath  given  me  the  order,  I  will 
not  barter  it." 

«  Then  fear  me,  Ernani." 

Suddenly  boomed  over  their  heads  the  loud  sound  of 
triumphant  artillery.  Victory !  victory  !  Charles  of  Cas- 
tille  was  the  Emperor  Charles  the  Fifth. 

As  the  sound  roared  forth,  the  emperor  strode  from  his 
concealment,  and  the  soldiery  coming  quickly  forward, 
behold  the  conspirators  were  prisoners. 


ERNANI.  245 

Again  the  cannon  burst  forth,  and  the  next  moment 
the  courtiers  were  coming  down  among  the  tombs  by 
torchlight,  to  congratulate  the  new  emperor. 

The  electors  headed  the  procession,  and,  kneeling,  greet- 
ed the  emperor  by  his  new  title. 

"  The  will  of  heaven  be  mine.  See  these  traitors ;  they 
ha\Te  formed  against  me  a  plot.  Tremble,  ye  traitors,  as 
ye  learn  an  emperor's  vengeance  !  Let  the  plebeians  be 
cast  into  prison  ;  let  the  nobles  bow  to  the  block." 

"  Accord  the  block  to  me,  O  emperor !  for  I,  Ernani, 
lord  of  Arragon,  Cordova,  and  Segovia." 

Why  does  he  start  and  tremble  ?  Is  it  that  he  sees  his 
dear  mistress  again  flinging  herself  at  the  emperor's  feet  ? 
Again  she  pleads  for  mercy ;  again  she  asks  for  happiness 
and  justice. 

"  Thou  askest,  lady,  what  is  already  granted  ;  what  the 
king  could  not  forgive,  the  emperor  will  not  look  on  as 

ofience You  are  all  pardoned  !  .  .  .  .  And  as  for  thee, 

my  lord  Ernani,  let  the  memory  of  the  father's  death  be 
forgotten  in  the  justice  done  his  son.  Thou  art  again 
lord  of  Arragon,  Cordova,  and  Segovia;  and  thy  lady  — 
behold  her ! " 

The  new  emperor  placed  the  hand  of  Elvira  in  that  of 
Ernani.  And  then  again  the  emperor  spoke,  "YE  ARE 

ALL    PARDONED ! " 

But  how  black  was  the  menacing  cloud  near  at  hand. 
The  old  grandee,  sternly  frowning,  and  pressing  his  hand 
about  a  certain  hunting  horn,  whose  blast  was  death. 


PART  IY.  —  THE  MASQUERADE. 

IN  Sarragossa,  in  the  palace  of  the  reinstated  lord,  his 
marriage  was  being  celebrated.  Happy  at  last  —  the 
couple  bound  together  for  life. 

The  palace  of  Ernani,  or  rather  Don  Giovanni  of  Arra- 
gon, was  all  ablaze  with  light ;  and  the  pale  moonbeams, 
shooting  into  the  palace-grounds,  showed  numberless 
mysterious  masquers  flitting  to  and  fro.  It  was  a  grand 
masquerade  the  bridegroom  was  giving. 

But  among  the  masquers  was  one  wko  spoke  to  no- 


246  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

body;  who  took  note  of  nobody ;  who  moved  along  Bteal- 
thily  from  group  to  group  with  a  firm  merciless  tread. 
They  who  looked  very  closely  at  the  mysterious  masquer, 
noted  that  his  hair  was  white,  and  that  his  eyes  glittered 
fearfully  below  his  mask. 
44 Who  is  he?" 

"  See  how  angrily  he  looketh  about  him." 
"  He  seemeth  a  wizard ! n  » 

Still  he  took  no  notice,  but  went  from  group  to  group. 


"  Gentle  love  —  thou  hast  not  seen  thy  lover's  face  so 
oft  to-night  that  thou  shouldst  wear  thy  eyelids  down ; 
look  up,  and  light  my  very  soul !  " 

M  In  truth,  dear  husband,  I  have  some  mysterious  fear, 
I  know  not  why,  and  yet  I  tremble.  A  coming  ill  seem- 
eth near." 

"Those  who  have  felt  the  storm  do  tremble  when  the 
lightning  flashes.  But  now  our  sky  is  all  unclouded,  love; 
our  life  as  happy  as  our  hearts  are  light.  See  how  tran- 
quil all  about  us  seems  ;  see,  too,  the  guests  are  going,  the 
twinkling  lights  die  out  each  after  each,  and  tell  us  that 
the  morn  is  breaking.  Dost  thou  still  fear  ?  " 

"  Who  that  has  had  nought  but  fears  for  what  he  hath 
—  I  fear,  my  love,  I  fear.  For  thee  —  for  thee  alone." 

A  low  winding  blast  upon  a  horn  swept  past  their  ears. 

"  Why  dost  thou  tremble,  love,  my  Ernani  ?  Is  the  air 
cold  ?  or  have  I  frightened  thee,  perchance  ?  " 

Again  the  low  destroying  blast  swept  past  them. 

"  See,  see,  Elvira !  dost  thou  not  see  his  eyes  sparkling 
in  the  darkness  ?  I  see  his  white  teeth  as  he  smiles  mock- 
ingly !" 

"  Ernani !  Ernani !  I  am  terror-stricken ! " 

He  looked  quickly  at  her,  as  though  he  would  confide 
in  her  some  great  terror.  Then  a  world  of  pity  flooded 
his  face,  and  he  said  quickly  — 

"'Twas  an  old  wound,  Elvira,  which  leapt  in  pain. 
Leave  me  a  little,  love ;  I'll  come  to  thee  soon." 

"  A  loving  wife  doth  lovingly  obey.     I  go." 

He  followed  her  with  his  eyes  till  he  could  see  her  no 
longer,  in  the  moon-light,  and  then  he  knew  he  was  alone 


247 

with  death.  Yet  for  a  moment  hope  sprang  up;  the 
sound  was  surely  fancy;  the  dread  of  what  might  be.  He 
was  so  little  used  to  joy  that  now  it  was  come  he  could 
not  believe  in  it.  So  he  let  go  the  dagger  he  had  touched; 
and  rising,  prepared  to  follow  his  bride. 

Then  again  came  the  wailing  sound,  and  following  it 
were  whispered  the  mocking  words  — 

"  Take  thou  this  horn  —  when  from  it  sounds  a  blast 
'Twill  tell  Ernani  that  his  days  are  past." 

"MERCY!" 

Creeping  through  the  moonlight  came  the  mysterious 
masquer  —  his  face  seen  now  to  be  the  unforgiving,  re- 
vengeful face  of  Don  Ruy,  come  to  seek  atonement  for 
the  loss  of  a  bride,  and  to  demand  the  fulfilment  of  a  rash 
•  oath. 

"  So  soon ! " 

"  Aye  —  so  soon  !  "  I  come  to  turn  thy  myrtles  to  cy- 
presses." 

"Think  —  oh  think!  I  have  drunk  from  the  cup  of 
bitterness  all  my  life  —  have  tasted  no  happiness  till  now. 
Tarry  a  little  —  be  merciful  —  tarry  a  little." 

"  '  Take  thou  this  horn  —  when  from  it  sounds  a  blast 
5  Twill  tell  Ernani  that  his  days  are  past'  " 

"  Again  —  mercy  ! " 

"  I  am  a  Spaniard." 

Then  came  flitting  through  the  shade  the  white  figure 
of  the  doubting  bride.  As  she  came  near  the  spot  where 
she  had  left  Ernani  she  saw  the  grandee,  and  needed  no 
words  to  be  assured  that  her  foreboding  was  no  weak 
fear. 

"  See,  she  comes  —  thy  bride  —  to  see  thee  fall.  For- 
ward, fair  lady  —  forward,  fair  widow  !  " 

"  Don  Ruy  —  art  implacable  ?  " 

"As  death  —  'Twill  tell  Ernani  that  his  days  are 
past.' " 

"  Don  Ruy  —  I  love  him  —  I  love  him !  Mercy,  dear 
guardian,  mercy ! " 

"  That  thou  lov'st  him  is  thy  fault.  Hasten,  Ernani,  if 
thou  art  of  Spanish  blood." 


248  TALKS  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

"  Elvira  —  do  not  plead  —  it  weakens  my  weak  arm ' " 
But  she  was  too  loving  to  obey  —  too  terror-stricken  to 
look  upon  her  husband.  She  still  remained  upon  the 
ground  pleading  hopelessly  to  the  don  for  mercy.  Mercy, 
she  could  not  tell  for  what ;  yet  mercy  she  saw  he  had 
the  power  to  give. 

"I  knew  it.  Fate  hath  but  spread  this  feast  before 
mine  eyes  to  make  yet  blacker  the  bare  truth.  Don  Ruy 
_if_if_» 

"  '  Take  them  this  horn  —  when  from  it — '  " 

«Ah— " 

There  was  a  dull  thud,  a  swingeing  sound,  and  the 
bridegroom  was  on  the  ground,  pressing  his  hand  upon 
his  side. 

Spanish  honor  was  appeased  — he  had  paid  the  debt  of 
the  life  he  had  placed  in  the  grandee's  hands,  and  which 
he  had  refused  to  purchase  in  the  catacombs. 

"  Farewell  —  dear  love  —  farewell.  Nor  seek  to  follow 
me.  Thou  dead,  who  is  there  left  in  all  the  world  to 
love  or  think  of  me  ?  As  thou  dost  love  me,  live  for 
me  —  weep  for  me  —  guard  my  grave  !  Our  happiness 
was  but  a  phantom.  I  knew  'twould  vanish.  Farewell 
—  farewell!" 

And  still  with  his  hand  upon  his  side,  his  head  fell 
upon  her  breast,  and  he  spoke  no  more. 

There,  on  that  spot,  there  were  but  two  living  human 
beings.  The  young  bride  mutely  clasping  her  dead 
husband  in  her  arms ;  and  the  remorseless  noble  standing 
over  her  unpityingly  —  unforgivingly  —  and  glorying  in 
his  terrible  revenge ! 


MARTHA.    (FLOTOW.) 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  Lady  Henrietta  —  no,  I  will  not  divulge  her  sur- 
name —  the  Lady  Henrietta  was  ennuyed  and  bored  — 
though  she  lived  in  the  sixteenth  century.  Furthermore, 
the  honest  fact  is,  that  being  bored,  Henrietta  was  far 
from  agreeable,  as  two  persons  knew,  to  wit,  Nancy,  her 
ladyship's  sharp  waiting  maid,  and  Lord  Tristram,  who 
was  old  and  a  fool. 

A  fool  decidedly — for  courting  a  young  and  handsome 
woman.  Hence,  by  inference,  you  see  that  the  Lady 
Henrietta  was  young  and  handsome.  Yes,  young,  hand- 
some, rich,  noble,  healthy,  and  miserable ! 

She  could  not  tell  anybody  why  she  was  miserable,  but 
on  one  particular  day,  when  her  ladyship  was  rather  more 
miserable  than  usual,  within  her  castle  at  Richmond; 
at  Richmond  statute  fair  some  hundred  yards  off,  not  a 
single  lassie  offering  herself  out  for  hire,  on  the  dismal 
conditions  of  that  day,  but  was  happier  than  my  Lady 
Henrietta. 

On  that  particular  morning  she  was  sitting  snappishly 
at  her  toilette  —  though,  indeed,  she  was  naturally  good- 
tempered;  but  aristocracy  has  its  miseries,  or  where 
woitlcl  the  balance  of  things  be?  —  when  Lord  Tristam 
arrived.  One  might  have  solemnly  declared,  without 
seeing  my  lord's  face,  that  my  lord  had  been  tripped  up 
by  youth  and  had  never  overtaken  that  early  visitor. 
The  way  in  which  the  lair  Henrietta  treated  him  was  a 
satire  upon  man's  supremacy  —  indeed,  this  lord  of  Cos- 
mos was  a  supreme  fool. 

The  old  youngster  coming  in,  she  told  him  to  kneel. 
He  did.  She  told  him  to  get  up.  He  did.  She  bade 
11* 


250  TALES  FEOM  THE  OPERAS. 

him  shut  the  window.  Click  went  the  latch.  Immediate- 
ly he  heard  the  command  to  open  it  again.  Then  and 
there  he  did  it,  and  was  rewarded  by  the  sight  of  a  pair 
of  scornful  shoulders. 

And  it  was  just  when  her  ladyship  was  stamping  her 
foot  pettish'.y,  and  the  lord  looking  on  in  a  doleful  state, 
that,  i'  faith,  such  happy  sounds  of  singing  stole  through 
the  window !  Why,  the  voices  must  have  belonged  to 
creatures  as  happy  as  lords.  No,  no,  no  ;  a  mistake,  kind 
reader,  a  mistake.  As  happy  as  —  as  poor  servants  not 
knowing  where  their  morrow's  bread  lay.  Blessed  — 
blessed  —  blessed  hope,  which  paints  that  same  to-morrow 
so  gaudily  that  we  have  not  much  grief  for  our  rags  and 
crusts  of  to-day.  And  the  morrow  is  to-day,  and  the 
morrow  yet  again,  and  still  we  hope  on,  hope  ever. 
Faith,  I  would  sooner  be  Tom  Tumbler  at  the  next  show, 
with  the  "hope  "  of  getting  on  Drury  Lane  boards,  than 
the  richest  and  handsomest  peer  in  England,  if  he  has  no 
aspirations  whatever. 

These  poor  servants  were  going  to  the  statute  fair,  to 
get  hired,  if  they  could;  to  hope  for  hiring  if  they  could 
not ;  and,  as  they  went  on,  they  sang  merry  songs. 

Oh !  the  sudden  thought  struck  her.  There  was  not  a 
poor  servant  wench  but  wished  to  be  a  lady ;  why  should 
not  a  lady  wish  to  be  a  servant  wench  ?  'Tis  but  the  law 
of  reciprocity. 

The  very  thought  made  her  more  joyful,  or  rather,  less 
dismal  than  she  had  been  for  some  time.  A  moment 
more,  as  her  natural  good-temper  came  back,  and  she  had 
decided.  Yes,  she  would  dress  in  that  peasant  masque- 
rade dress  of  hers;  and  she  would  be — Martha;  and 
Nancy  should  be  —  Nancy.  And  —  and  would  not  his 
lordship  join  them  ?  Of  course  his  lordship  would.  His 
lordship  should  be  —  John  1 

His  lordship  used  plainer  language  than  he  had  ever 
before  used ;  his  lordship,  in  a  word,  declined  flatly ;  but 
ah!  love  will  lead  self-satisfied'  old-young  men  the  queer- 
est of  dances ;  so,  it  is  but  just  old  parties  should  go 
through  their  little  hops  and  jigs,  and  puff  and  blow  all 
the  way  through  the  pretty  little  pas. 

So  let  us  just  imagine  Martha,  Nancy,  and  John,  mak- 


MAETHA.  251 


ing  for  the  fair ;  Martha  laughing  as  she  has  not  laughed 
for  years,  Nancy  playing  a  polite,  impertinent  second,  and 
John  doing  his  very  best  to  be  gay  and  happy.  Poor 
fellow! 


CHAPTER  IL 

EVEN-  in  this  enlightened  hour,  at  statute  fairs  English 
girls  stand  in  rows  and  exhibit  their  points  —  mental, 
menial,  and  physical,  to  as  many  farmer's  wives  as  have 
tongues  and  eyes,  '  Tis  not  a  happy  mode  of  hiring  ser- 
vants, choosing  them  as  you  would  sheep  ;  but  let  us  hope 
that  a  better  time  is  coming. 

And,  of  course,  in  the  dark  middle  age,  statute  fairs 
were  held  in  England ;  hence,  we  naturally  get  to  that 
fair  for  which  those  blythe  singers  were  bound,  and  whom 
Lady  Henrietta  and  her  court  of  two  followed. 

'  Twas  the  usual  scene :  stout  farmers'  wives  marching 
about  in  the  superior  manner,  the  girls  looking  about  in 
rows  of  rosy  cheeks  and  giggles,  and  scandal  every- 
where ;  for  at  statute  fairs  the  way  in  which  the  maids 
run  down  their  old  mistresses,  and  the  way  in  which  the 
mistresses  run  down  their  old  maids,  can  easily  be 
imagined. 

In  one  quiet  part  of  the  market  stood  Lionel  and 
Plunket,  brothers  and  farmers. 

These  two  personages  had  come  to  hire  two  servants; 
but  whether  the  servants  were  of  a  very  bad  kind,  or  the 
farmers  very  difficult  to  please,  certain  it  is  that  these  lat- 
ter were  servantless,  though  the  fair  was  half  over. 

They  had  not  long  lost  their  mother,  a  good  mother, 
so  they  were  not  to  be  satisfied  with  any  kind  of  ser- 
vants. 

I  love  to  make  all  plain,  and  therefore  I  may  as  well 
say  at  once  that  these  brothers  were  not  brothers.  If 
affection  and  sacrifice,  and  all  that  kind  of  thing,  made 
men  real  brothers,  they  would  have  been  brothers ;  but 
the  same  woman  did  not  bear  them.  Plunket  was  the 
real  son  of  the  mother  whose  death  we  have  just  men- 
tioned, and  Lionel  was  the  foundling,  though  as  the 


252  TALES   FROM   THE    OPERAS. 

mother  had  been  a  good  woman,  she  had  always  had 
enough  love  for  both  her  own  son  and  the  foundling,  and 
some,  indeed,  left  for  the  world  in  general.  This  old 
mother,  in  a  year  long  gone  to  sleep,  had  opened  her 
door  late  one  night,  for  being  good  she  had  a  stout  heart, 
and  there  found  a  man  and  child  upon  the  threshold. 
The  man  died,  the  child  lived  to  be  her  foundling,  and 
her  second  son.  Who  the  man  was  they  never  learned. 
He  died,  and  made  no  sign.  Ah,  yes  —  that  little  diamond 
ring  given  to  the  good  woman  in  keeping  for  his  son.  If 
ever  he  was  in  trouble,  this  son  of  his,  the  ring  was  to  be 
carried  to  the  queen.  But  Lionel  had  never  been  in  any 
trouble  up  to  the  time  of  the  good  woman's  death ;  soon 
after  which  the  two  farmers  wanted  two  servants,  and 
came  to  the  fair  to  seek  them. 

And  thus  naturally  are  we  brought  back  to  the  fair. 

Neither  Lionel  nor  Plunket  could  find  a  single  servant 
to  their  mind,  much  less  two,  and  so  they  went  wander- 
ing about,  and  submitted  to  the  hard  sarcasm  of  the 
would-be  hired. 

Meanwhile,  in  another  part  of  the  fair  the  sheriff  was 
doing  his  duty  like  a  sheriff.  Said  duty  being  to  an- 
nounce, as  usual,  that  all  agreements  between  servants 
and  masters  were  binding  for  twelve  months  —  said  bind- 
ing to  be  a  legal  fact  from  the  very  moment  the  said 
servants  took  earnest  money  from  the  said  masters.  Also 
the  sheriff  was  a  blessed  go-between,  announcing  to  the 
servants  the  wants  of -the  masters,  and  to  the  masters  the 
wants  of  the  servants.  '  Twas  surprising  how  clever  all 
the  servants  were  according  to  their  own  showing,  and 
how  doubtful  the  masters  were  in  believing  those  same 
statements  ;  and  indeed,  'tis  true  these  statements  might 
have  led  an  observer  to  surmise  that  all  the  good  servants 
in  the  county  had  been  discharged  at  one  and  the  same 
moment. 

And  it  was  just  at  the  precise  moment  when  the 
sheriff  was  going  to  retreat,  overwhelmed  by  numbers, 
that  the  Lady  Henrietta  —  or  Martha,  rather — Nancy, 
and  the  troubled  John  —  Lord  Tristam  —  came  upon  the 
noisy  scene. 

Now,  neither  Martha  nor  Nancy  were  within  a  hundred 


MARTHA.  253 

yards  of  the  sheriff,  when  Lionel  and  Plunket  marked 
them  both,  and  bore  down  upon  them. 

As  the  lord  saw  this,  he  was  very  urgent  indeed  that 
all  this  disreputable  masquerading  should  come  to  an  end. 

Whereupon  Martha  called  out  to  my  lord,  "  Sir,  I'll  not 
have  thee  for  my  master."  And  Nancy  added  her  objec- 
tion too. 

"  So  please  thee,  good  man,  thou  canst  not  force  the 
girls  to  serve,"  said  Plunket,  at  whom  the  old  lord  stared. 
However,  he  could  not  stare  long,  for  all  the  servant  girls 
about,  hearing  Martha  refuse  the  old  gentleman's  service, 
pressed  about  him,  each  playing  her  own  little  trumpet  at 
the  top  of  her  voice.  And,  to  be  short,  the  old  young 
lord  thought  himself  perfectly  justified  in  running  away. 
Lady  Henrietta  was  Lady  Henrietta,  but  that  was  no 
reason  why  his  lordship  should  be  worried  dead,  so  he 
thought  he  had  better  go ;  and  did. 

"  Nancy,  Nancy,  they  are  looking  at  us."  True,  indeed, 
spoke  Martha ;  Lionel  and  Plunket  were  looking  at  "  us," 
and  in  the  act  of  questioning  each  other  touching  "  us." 

And  it  was  at  this  precise  moment  that  Nancy  told  La- 
dy Henrietta  she  was  trembling,  and  Lady  Henrietta  told 
Nancy  that  she  suffered  also  from  the  same  cause. 

The  chroncicles  do  not  state  which  of  the  quartette 
spoke  first,  while  on  the  other  hand  the  author  was  not 
present  at  the  interview.  But  let  it  be  admitted  that 
Plunket  spoke  first,  and  said  —  "  Hem  —  do  ye  seek  a  ser- 
vice, maidens  —  will  ye  bargain  with  us  ?  " 

"  A  capital  bargain,"  said  the  other  farmer. 

"  Well,"  said  Ladv  Henrietta. 

u  Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha,"  said  Nancy,  who,  being  a  lady's-maid, 
was  infinitely  scornful  at  the  idea  of  being  a  farmer's  ser- 
vant. 

"  Oh,"  said  stout  Plunket  to  the  latter,  "  I  love  laughter 
—  work  is  better  done  by  far  when  servants  all  gay- 
hearfed  are." 

The  "  maidens  "  were  still  doubtful,  so  the  farmer  Plun- 
ket set  to  work  to  show  the  "place"  was  not  an  every-day 
place  —  and — and  the  upshot  of  it  all  was  that  Lady  Hen- 
rietta, and,  oh,  more  terrible  by  far,  Lady  Henrietta's 
maid,  engaged  themselves  as  farm  servants  to  the  two 


254  TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. 

Btout  young  farmers — and  then  took  their  earnest  money 
(Lady  Henrietta  didn't  know  what  to  do  with  her  Queen 
Elizabeth's  shilling,  and  so  she  dropped  it) — their  earnest 
money,  which  bound  these  two  to  their  masters  for  twelve 
whole  weary  months. 

As  her  ladyship  gave  up  the  first  money  she  had  ever 
earned  in  her  life,  Lord  Tristam  came  to  view  again  — 
still  harassed  by  not  a  few  stout  handmaidens,  who,  it 
seemed,  had  determined  he  should  choose  one  of  them. 
However,  he  flung  a  good  amount  of  silver  about ;  then, 
feeling  at  liberty  once  more,  he  came  with  an  air  towards 
the  two  girls;  whereupon  he  was  warned  off  by  their  new 
masters,  who  seemed  rather  proud  of  their  proprietor- 
shin. 

Then  it  was  that  the  Lady  Henrietta  proposed  to  return 
home.  Alas,  that  despised  shilling!  Within  five  minutes 
more  she  learned  she  was  actually  a  servant  —  bound  as 
surely  as  any  apprentice  ;  and,  indeed,  the  sheriff  arrived 
precisely  at  that  moment,  to  settle  the  matter  beyond  all 
dispute.  Meanwhile,  my  lord  stood  in  the  background,  a 
picture  of  bewildered  despair,  and  Lady  Henrietta  stood 
in  the  foreground  almost  in  tears.  Why,  if  the  court 
heard  of  alt  this  she  should  never  be  able  to  show  herself 
in  that  court's  presence  !  At  all  events,  the  truth  could 
not  be  spoken  then  and  there.  Let  her  be  silent  before 
the  horrid  mob.  Hence  it  was  that  Lady  Henrietta  went 
off  quite  meekly  as  a  farm  servant,  while  Nancy  took  the 
same  road,  jerking  her  head  and  flouncing  her  garments 
as  only  lady's  maids  of  all  climes  and  times  could  and  can 
manage  it. 

As  for  Lord  Tristam,  he  looked  as  nearly  ridiculous  as 
an  English  lord  ever  could  look ! 


CHAPTER  III. 

IMAGINE  that  the  two  farmers  and  their  new  servants 
have  arrived  at  the  farm-house  —  a  large,  roomy,  old  build- 
ing, with  deep  bay  windows  of  wavy  green  glass,  in  the 
Very  heart  of  the  forest. 

"  Home  at  last,"  said  Plunket,  who  had  pioneered  the 


MARTHA.  255 

flouncing  Nancy,  as  he  thrust  the  key  into  the  lock.  Aa 
they  all  entered,  Lady  Henrietta  could  not  help  compar- 
ing the  place  to  a  prison.  However,  she  did  not  make 
the  odious  comparison  in  a  loud  voice. 

"There,"  said  Plunket,  who  was  spokesman  for  the 
two,  and  addressing  the  girls,  "  there,  that's  your  room." 

"  Oh  —  tha-a-a-ank  you,"  said  the  Lady  Henrietta. 

"JVi-deed,"  said  the  sharp  Nancy. 

"Good  night,"  said  her  ladyship,  and  turned  sleepily 
towards  the  door;  for,  truth  to  tell,  her  ladyship  had 
never  even  dreamed  of  such  journeying  as  she  had  per- 
formed that  luckless  day.  "Good  night,"  and  she  had 
her  hand  upon  the  latch. 

The  stout  Plunket  stared.  "  Good  night  — why  there's 
work  to  do  !  " 

"  Wo-o-o-ork,"  said  Henrietta.  And  Nancy  too, 
shrieked  out  the  little  word. 

"  Of  course  —  take  my  hat,"  said  Plunket* 

Nancy  took  the  hat  immediately,  but  she  privately  shot 
it  into  a  corner.  Lionel  also  held  out  his  hat  to  Henriet- 
ta, but  he  seemed  to  do  so  rather  because  it  brought  him 
near  her,  than  as  the  act  of  her  legal  master  for  twelve 
months,  less  one  day.  Henrietta  took  it,  and  knowing 
no  more  what  to  do  with  it  than  she  had  known  what  to 
do  with  the  fast  binding  shilling,  dropped  it.  But  Lionel 
did  not  mark  that  fall  —  his  eyes  were  on  the  new  ser- 
vant's handsome  face.  Indeed,  he  was  in  love  with  her, 
I  think. 

"  Work  —  work  —  work,"  said  Plunkett. 

"  But  I'm  shivering  with  cold  1 " 

"  And  so  am  I,"  said  Nancy. 

"  Brother,"  said  Lionel,  "  brother,  she's  shivering  with 
cold,  you  know." 

Then  Nancy  committed  herself  to  this  sharp  remark, 

"  I'm  sure  this  house  is  damp ! " 

If  anybody  had  told  the  Lady  Henrietta  on  the  previ- 
ous day  that  she  could  fall  asleep  before  two  strange  men 
of  the  farmer  kind,  she  would  have  been  justified  in  de- 
nying the  proposition,  but  'tis  a  fact  that  now  she  sat 
down,  laid  her  head  upon  her  hands,  and  was  off  into  a 
nap.  Whereon,  it  need  not  be  said,  Nancy  fell  asleep 


256  TALES  FROM  THE  OPEKAS. 

too,  for  Nancy  knew  her  duty.  Indeed,  it  may  be  said 
that  Nancy  was  very  considerably  enjoying  this  comedy 
—  in  her  way.  However,  she  did  not  enjoy  the  horrid 
shake  with  which  rough  farmer  Plunket  woke  her. 
Plunket,  somehow,  did  not  use  quite  so  much  violence  in 
waking  up  Henrietta.  Perhaps  this  was  because  Lionel 
quietly  touched  him  on  the  arm.  And  —  and  perhaps  the 
Lady  Henrietta  was  more  handsome  than  ever,  with  her 
eyes  closed. 

"Hullo  —  what  are  your  names?"  said  rough  farmer 
Plunket. 

"Name  —  name,"  said  Henrietta,  as  though  puzzled  at 
that  plain  question.  "Name,  sir.  Oh,  I'm  —  I'm  MAR- 
THA, so  please  you."  And  she  made  a  bob  curtsey. 

"And  Pm  Betsy,"  said  Nancy,  and  she  made  a  broken- 
backed  curtsey. 

"  And  not  a  bad  name  for  a  good  girl  is  Betsy,"  said 
farmer  Plunket.  "  Betsy,  put  my  cloak  away." 

Which  the  indignant  handmaiden  did  in  the  manner  of 
the  hat. 

And  then  it  was  that  Plunket  proposed  spinning.  Why, 
neither  of  the  girls  knew  a  distaff  from  any  other  staff  in 
the  world.  And  then,  surely,  it  would  have  been  delight- 
ful to  hear  the  great  men  direct  the  little  women  how  to 
spin,  still  more  delightful  to  see  their  great  hands  pressing 
the  thin  thread.  But  ah !  nor  one  nor  the  other  could 
have  given  the  delight  which  the  young  farmer  of  the 
name  of  Lionel  felt,  when  he  found  himself  bending  over 
the  beautiful,  delicate-handed  servant,  and  actually  touch- 
ing those  same  delicate  hands. 

Br-r-r-r-r,  br-r-r-r-r,  br-r-r-r-r,  went  the  wheels,  the 
industrious  wheels,  and  soon  Martha  was  producing 
a  highly  creditable  thread.  Meamvhile,  Nancy  was 
making  Plunket  half  wild,  for  her  wheel  kept  flying  first 
one  way  and  then  the  other,  and  the  flax  got  all  manner 
of  ways,  the  whole  machinery  looking  as  though  in  a  fatal 
fit.  Meanwhile,  Martha  was  industriously  spinning,  and 
her  young  master  as  industriously  praising  her.  At  last 
Plunket  got  into  a  rage  as  Miss  Betsy  finally  upset  the 
wheel  with  a  crash,  and  he  was  preparing  to  pounce  upon 
Ler  in  the  real  old  English  middle  age  manner,  when  tho 


MAKTHA.  257 

spinster  showed  herself  deft  at  running  at  least,  and  fled 
from  the  room,  followed  by  Plunket,  with  threats  of  divers 
kinds. 

As  she  was  scudding  round  the  door  post,  and  looking 
over  her  shoulder,  Martha  looked  up  from  her  demure 
employment  (neither  she  nor  Lionel  had  heard  the  crash) 
and  no  longer  seeing  Nancy,  or  Betsy,  behold  the  birr- 
birring  of  her  wheel  ceased,  and  she  started  up  from  the 
work-a-day,  wooden  seat. 

"  Kay,  thou  art  not  afraid." 

«  Afraid  —  I  ?     Of  you  —  oh  no." 

And  she  thought,  for  a  farmer,  he  seemed  very  gentle  ; 
he  also  thought  she  was  very  superior,  for  a  servant ;  and, 
as  he  was  his  own  master,  he  had  a  right  to  think  as  he 
liked.  Truth  to  tell,  I  think  she  was  beginning  to  feel 
kindly  towards  the  gentle  farmer. 

"  So  thou  art  not  afraid  of  me,  Martha?  " 

"  Oh  no,"  she  said  again ;  still,  nevertheless  wishing 
Nancy  to  return. 

"  I  promise  thee,  Martha,  I  will  be  a  kind  master  —  a 
better  master  thou  shalt  not  wish  for." 

"  And  I  promise  thee,  master,  I  shall  be  a  bad  servant 
—  a  worse  servant  thou  wilt  never  wish  to  be  rid  of. 
The  honest  truth  and  the  plain  truth  is,  I'm  only  fit  for 
laughing." 

"  Well,  if  thou  canst  only  laugh  — -  i'faith,  laugh.  Thou 
doest  that  bravely.  I'll  not  part  with  thee,  Martha.  I'd 
rather  die  than  part  with  thee,  Martha ! " 

"  Sir,"  said  the  new  servant,  in  faint  surprise.  '  Twaa  a 
love-at-first-sight  declaration,  she  knew. 

"  And  can  you  sing,  Martha,  as  well  as  laugh  ?  Sing 
now,  sing  about  this  rose,"  here  he  took  the  little  blossom, 
from  her  bosom. 

"  Give  me  the  rose." 

"  Nay,  thou  wilt  let  me  keep  it." 

"  Give  me  the  rose,  I  say." 

«But  — but." 

"  Nay,  master,  if  you  will  keep-  it,  keep  it." 

And  —  she  sang.  The  Lady  Henrietta  was  beginning 
to  enjoy  the  comedy.  There  was  a  deal  of  unlooked-for 
happiness  about  it,  somehow. 


258  TALES    FKOM   THE    OPERAS. 

It  was  at  the  end  of  this  song,  the  honest'  chronicler 
states,  that  Lionel  went  down  on  his  knees  before  the  new 
servant,  and  in  plain  straightforward  terras  told  her  lie 
loved  her.  This  may  appear  a  highly  rapid  mode  of 
courtship,  but  reference  to  middle  age  authorities  —  and 
the  authorities  of  Elizabeth  may  surely  be  called  mid  ile 
aged  —  will  thoroughly  set  at  rest  this  question  in  the 
mind  of  any  sceptical  reader,  if  I  have  to  deplore  such  a 
one.  I  do  not  know  the  authorities  by  name,  but  that 
has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  it. 

The  lady  smiling  a  little  as  the  impromptu  lover  tore 
away  all  question  of  inferiority  of  rank  on  her  part ;  this 
latter,  as  see  the  authorities  again,  was  for  suicide  and 
sudden  death,  but  the  perky  Nancy  coming  into  the  room, 
followed  by  Plunket,  the  young  farmer  Lionel  only  got 
up  off  his  knees. 

The  new  servant,  Nancy,  it  seemed,  had  drawn  a  mug 
of  beer,  but  forgotten  to  turn  the  tap  off,  hence  flight  on 
her  part  and  pursuit  on  the  part  of  farmer  Plunket,  who, 
chasing  his  prey  up  into  a  sharp  corner,  caught  a  crashing 
box  on  her  saucy  ears. 

Then  it  was  that  the  village  clock  struck  such  a  late 
hour  as  farmers  should  never  hear,  except  on  the  nights 
of  fairs. 

So  the  candles  were  lit,  and  the  new  servants  respect- 
fully lighted  their  young  masters  to  the  door. 

Then  left  alone,  the  two  girls  looked  at  each  other  in 
the  blankest  manner  possible.  Beyond  a  doubt  the  whole 
casl-le  was  in  an  uproar;  everybody  hunting  for  her, 
(  Nancy  said,  "  hunting  for  us,"  )  and  how  should  she  ex- 
plain her  absence  to  the  scandal-mongers  ? 

"  Well,"  said  Nancy, "  they  seem  brave  lads  and  honest." 

"  And  respectful." 

"  Hum  —  good  rough  kind  of  souls,  my  lady." 

"  Yes,  I  wish  heartily  we  were  at  home." 

"  We  might  as  well  wish  for  the  queen's  diamonds." 

And  here  it  was  both  the  girls  started,  for  a  very  dis- 
tinct tapping  came  at  the  window.  They  were  still  trem- 
bling when  the  tapping  was  renewed,  and  a  weak  old 
voice  cried,  "  Cousin  —  cousin." 

Perhaps  Lady  Henrietta  never  heard  the  old  lord's 


MARTHA.  259 

voice  with  less  dislike  than  now.  She  opened  the  case- 
ment herself,  and  Tristam  jumped  in  as  lightly  as  possible. 

Joy !  their  imprisonment  was  at  an  end.  But  —  but 
the  lady  Henrietta  seemed  a  little  sorry  to  go.  Indeed, 
when  she  had  stepped  lightly  through  the  window-case, 
she  half  hesitated,  as  though  she  would  turn  back ;  but 
the  impetuous  Nancy  in  a  measure  drove  her  forward, 
and  the  next  moment  she  was  galloping  away  from  the 
farm  on  her  horse's  back,  kindly  brought  by  his  lordship  ; 
but  —  but  her  thoughts  were  at  the  farm. 

My  Lord  Tristam  in  making  his  hurried  exit  from  the 
people's  place,  overturned  a  table;  and  barely  had  he 
reached  the  ground  through  the  window,  when  Lionel 
was  up  and  preparing  to  enter  the  room  where  the  spin- 
ning machines  stood. 

He  tapped  at  her  door  —  no  answer.  Again  he  tapped 
—  no  answer.  Then  he  called  Plunket,  who  came  stomi- 
ily  into  the  room,  but  when  he  heard  that  the  servants 
made  no  answer,  he  was  alarmed,  for  he  felt  fi-iendly 
towards  the  troublesome  Betsy,  and  he  flung  the  room 
door  open.  Empty  !  Then  —  the  window  was  open !  He 
went  to  it ;  listened  !  and  sure  enough  in  the  distance  he, 
and  Lionet  too,  heard  the  sound  of  horses'  feet,  and  at 
one  and  the  same  moment  each  felt  a  blank  at  his  heart. 
Lionel  fell  upon  a  chair  overwhelmed,  like  a  youjth  deeply 
in  love  as  he  was,  but  stout  farmer  Plunket,  boiling  with 
rage,  called  out  in  a  voice  of  thunder  to  his  farm  servants; 
and  when  these  people  came  hurrying  in,  he  promised  a 
golden  guinea  to  the  two  men  who  should  catch  the  run- 
aways, and  he  then  set  to  work,  to  earn  his  own  guinea 
by  a  search  after  Nancy;  but  he  and  the  men  did  not 
dream  of  that  fugitive  being  within  the  walls  of  "  the 
castle,"  and  they  passed  the  mighty  building,  and  went 
on  hunting,  long  after  Martha,  Betsy,  and  John  were 
safely  housed. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

PLUNKET  had  a  heart,  and  had  perhaps  been  inclined 
to  bestow  it  upon  Nancy,  for  this  kind  of  thing  is  catch- 


260  TALES   FROM   THE   OPERAS. 

ing ;  but  the  jade  had  flown,  Plunket  was  not  the  man  to 
go  about  filling  the  air  with  big  sighs — he  set  to  work, 
drinking  beer,  and  plenty  of  it,  and  singing  jolly  songs. 
After  all,  farmer  Plunket  was  wise.  Now,  on  the  other 
hand,  Lionel  actually  went  melancholy  mad. 

Not  three  days  after  the  catastrophe,  Plunket  was  out 
in  the  woods  humming  away,  when  he  came  up  against 

—  Betsy;  and  in  quite  a  grand  hunting  costume.   She  was 
as  full  of  presence  of  mind  as  of  sauciness.     She  stared 
at  the  man  with  lazy  curiosity. 

In  a  dozen  strong  words  he  told  her  she  was  his  ser- 
vant, and  the  sheriff  should  decide  it. 

"'Tis  a  wild  beast!"  And  giving  the  view  halloo  of 
that  day,  a  number  of  huntresses  were  soon  about  him, 
and  kept  him  at  bay.  And  indeed,  they  quite  protected 
Nancy,  and  Plunket  had  the  worst  of  it. 

Meanwhile,  poor  Lionel  was  wandering  in  this  very 
wood,  at  this  very  time,  and  disconsolate  as  Ariadne,  but 
not  one  millionth  part  as  faithless. 

It  was  a  grand  court  hunting  day  in  fact;  Elizabeth 
Tudor  had  got  up  that  morning  at  six  to  chase  the  deer, 
and  one  of  many  huntresses  present  was  Lady  Henrietta. 
Coming  again  to  Lady  Henrietta,  I  may  mention  that  the 
company  she  had  most  loved  since  her  forced  visit  to  the 
farm  house  was  her  own;  indeed,  she  too  had  grown 
melancholy,  but  hers  was  very  far  from  such  a  dismal 
strait  as  Lionel's. 

Well  —  in  one  part  of  the  forest  sat  on  the  turf  Lord 
Tristam  and  Martha  (let  us  call  her  Martha  now  and 
then).  vThe  thing  which  my  lord  could  not  comprehend 
was  why  her  ladyship  had  left  the  queen's  party  —  the 
queerfs  party.  He  could  see  no  significance  in  the  answer 

—  because  she  wished  to  be  alone.     At  last  she  plainly 
asked  him  to  leave  her,  and,  hardly  believing  the  testimo- 
ny of  his  ears,  he  ambled  away. 

And  then  it  was  that  her  tears  went  tumbling  down 
upon  the  dewy  grass.  Oh !  if  no  bitterer  tears  had  ever 
been  shed  than  Lady  Henrietta's  what  a  blissful  world  it 
would  have  been  down  to  that  precious  May  morning ! 

And  thus  Lionel,  ever  wandering  in  the  wood,  found 
her. 


MARTHA.  261 

The  next  scene  is  really  so  painful  that  I  would  rather 
shut  my  eyes  to  it ;  but  alas,  did  I  do  so  there  would  be 
such  an  hiatus  in  this  true  history  that  you  might  fancy 
the  printing  gentlemen  engaged  upon  it  were  of  the  ec- 
centric kind.  So  in  a  few  short  and  unwilling  words  let 
me  tell  the  cruel  truth.  He  recognized  her  and  she 
screamed.  Thereupon,  Lord  Tristam,  who,  of  course, 
was  not  far  offj  made  his  appearance,  and  with  him  a 
perfect  posse.  Then  and  there  Lionel  declared  the  lady 
his  servant  —  the  Lady  Henrietta !  So  they  declared  he 
was  mad,  and  were  going  to  fall  upon  him,  when  she 
interceded  for  him  and  prayed  that  they  would  let  him 
go.  Then  it  was  that  Plunket  came  on  the  scene  and 
recognized  Martha ;  but  little  said  he,  smart  farmer. 

Suddenly,  the  sound  of  loud  trumpets  declared  Eliza- 
beth, Queen  of  England,  was  near  at  hand,  and,  as  they 
finally  drove  Lionel  back,  he,  poor  fellow  and  foundling, 
thought  of  the  small  diamond  ring  which  was  to  be  so 
tnlismanic.  He  took  it  from  his  finger,  pressed  it  within 
Plunket's  right  hand,  and  bade  him  give  it  to  the  queen. 

"Aye — aye,  lad,"  said  Plunket;  and  meau,t  it. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THAT  pleasant  old  farm  house,  once  so  happy,  was  as 
dull  as  the  forest  at  midnight.  Lionel  grew  more  and 
more  melancholy;  and,  indeed,  farmer  Plunket  was  not 
very  cheerful,  though  he  would  not  give  in. 

Plunket  was  sitting  by  himself  one  day,  and  waiting 
for  somebody — whom?  The  Lady  Henrietta  herself. 
Her  conscience  was  at  work.  So  she  determined  to  save 
him. 

A  little  and  farmer  Plunket  gave  a  start  of  relief — 
't\vas  the  arrival  of  the  lady  and  her  maid  Nancy,  now 
no  longer  the  saucy,  for  she  had  a  kind  heart,  as  she  felt 
somewhat  the  gloomy  end  of  the  masquerade  at  the  fair. 

Well,  the  farmer  and  Nancy  left  the  lady  by  herself. 
And  then,  then  she  sang  the  little  song  she  sang  when  he 
asked  her  to  sing  on  that  night  when  Lionel  brought  her 
home  as  his  servant. 


262  TALES  FROM  THE  OPEEAS. 

She  looked  tremblingly  about  her  as  she  sang  on  and 
on  to  the  end  of  the  verse,  and  then  Lionel  came  slowly 
into  the  room. 

Ah — I  have  forgetten  to  say  this  farmer  Lionel  was 
an  earl.  The  dead  owner  of  the  diamond  ring  had  been 
unjustly  banished;  years  and  years  before  his  sentence 
was  declared  unjust ;  years  and  years  had  people  wonder- 
ed where  the  earl  tarried,  and  now,  the  diamond  ring 
placed  in  the  queen's  hands,  was  the  clue  to  the  whole 
mystery. 

I  know  that  the  coming  of  Lady  Henrietta  to  the  farm- 
house must  look  interested.  'Tis  a  pity  almost  that 
Lionel  does  not  remain  a  poor  farmer ;  but  there,  the 
queen  has  the  ring  —  his  birth  is  recognized;  and  so, 
Martha  must  remain  under  the  imputation  of  telling  him 
she  loved  him,  not  for  himself,  but  for  his  title.  For  truth 
to  tell,  she  went  up  to  him,  and  whispered  that  she  loved 
him.  But  alas !  he  was  too  sunk  in  melancholy  to  feel 
his  heart  beat  high  at  hearing  those  words.  He  turned 
away  from  her  with  angry  pride. 

But  as  the  Lady  Henrietta  did  not  feel  outraged,  as  she 
Btill  strove  to  find  a  way  of  leading  Lionel  back  to  his  old 
self,  perhaps  these  little  circumstances  will  be  set  down 
in  favor  of  disinterested  love  on  her  part;  and  if  tho 
gentlemanly  reader  will  remember,  I  have  said  she  was 
very  dreamy  in  the  woods. 

Well,  this  was  the  lady's  next  plan :  It  was  as  old  as 
romance.  It  seems  if  one  bereft  of  sense  is  brought 
into  a  scene  similar  to  one  which  gave  him  great  happi- 
ness, the  effect  may  be  so  great  as  to  restore  him  to  con- 
sciousness. And  as  the  Lady  Henaietta  knew  'twas  a 
happy  hour  for  Lionel  when  he  engaged  her  as  a  servant, 
she  determined  to  have  a  mock  statute  fair,  sheriff  and 
all,  in  her  park. 

I  am  always  so  eager  to  tell  good  news  that  I  cannot 
stand  dallying  with  the  trumpet  in  my  hand ;  and  having 
told  it,  I  frequently  find  I  am  at  a  loss  what  to  say,  in 
continuation,  which  is  a  disconcerting  drawback.  Yet 
nevertheless,  though  I  could  make  a  fine  scene  here  by 
borrowing  from  the  chonicle,  I  prefer  at  once  to  say  that 
there  never  was  such  a  success  as  this  imitation  statute 


MARTHA.  263 

fair — for  Lionel  came  to  his  loving  senses  and  took 
Martha  to  his  very  heart. 

And  —  now,  I  do  not  know  what  to  say  next!  I  have 
told  all  my  news  —  I  am  at  a  standstill! 

What  can  come  next? 

Oh !  of  course.  They  were  married,  and  lived  happy 
ever  afterwards.  'Tis  just  like  the  end  of  a  comic  opera. 

And  stout  farmer  Plunket  was  married  to  Nancy.  She 
made  the  best  of  wives,  says  the  old  chronicle  with  a  con- 
cluding flourish. 


THE   END. 


15 

fe 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
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.  AFTER  MAR  19 1971 


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